


Sawdust

by chimosa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimosa/pseuds/chimosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1893 there was a circus owned by a man named Crawford.  There was a tightrope walker called Alana, a roustabout called Graham, a lion tamer called Hobbs, and the gentleman magician who controlled them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

August 1893

 

The train cars rolled into town three days later, just as Old Wheezer predicted they would. We watched, the other roustabouts and I, as those cars with their brightly etched “Crawford Brothers Circus” lurched to a stop in the small town’s dusty train station. 

“The vultures are here,” muttered Charlie as he passed the flask over to me. I wasn’t sure what was in there, something godawful but potent which was all I cared about. Already my mind was becoming muffled, the bright colors that usually painted the landscape of my imagination were becoming as washed out as Old Wheezer’s rheumy eyes. 

It was just about the only relief I could find, most days, and I welcomed the burn of a second sip of the hooch as it settled into my chest.

“Wonder who all they’re takin’ with em,” Digger said to no one in particular.

“Miss Bloom,” Charlie responded. 

“No shit, Miss Bloom.”

“Maybe soma the freaks?” guessed Digger around a mouthful of liquor.

It was a good guess, but even our freaks weren’t particularly astounding, not as far as freaks went. The fat lady was mostly portly and our Astounding Wild Manchild was a fairly timid boy from Peoria with unkempt hair. 

No, the Burke and Basel Circus had long ago quit turning a profit and had little luck at attracting a crowd, especially with these rails being as full of rival circuses with more spectacular sights then our own. Charlie was right, the only attraction we had that would be worth picking up was Alana Bloom and her tightrope act. When the creditors finally caught up with our meager band and Mr. Burke ran off in the middle of the night it was only a matter of time that another, more prosperous circus would ride up the rails to pick over what all the collectors had left behind. 

Old Wheezer had said three days and it looked like he was right. 

It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes for a weasle-y looking man with a hoity-toity tone to inform us all that our services “wouldn’t be required.” 

“Well that’s where the chips fall down, eh boys?” Charlie said, slapping his palms across his dusty lap. “I’m gonna go north, see if I can catch up with somethin’ or other. Who’s with me?”

Digger took a bracing pull from the flask before standing unsteadily. “North is as good a way as any. Graham?”

I shook my head, as much as an answer as to clear a path for some sobriety to cleave through the haze.

“I’m going to check on a few things first.” 

I didn’t even realize my eyes had drifted over to the familiar red-and-yellow car until Charlie turned his head, too. 

“Christ, Graham, you’ve gotta let ‘er go. There ain’t no way a roustie like you is gonna mean a thing to a woman like that.” His voice softened, became kinder than I had heard from him in all the three years I had known him. “Come on north with us, boy. It’s time to let that one go.”

I shrugged.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t see the truth in his words- after three years riding the rails, hopping from town to town, nothing had sparked between me and Alana any more than a tentative friendship. She appreciated my way with knots, and I liked the feeling of keeping her safe. The most passion I’d ever roused from her had been a peck on the cheek once in thanks for catching a fray in her rope before she had. Late at night, when the nightmares came too fast and to feverish I’d remember that kiss again and again, the exhale of her breath as it stirred across my cheek, the press of her lips, until the strange and lurid terrors left with the last vestiges of night.

While most of the performer’s encampment had, like every other part of the circus, been rooted through by those ham-handed excuses for debt collectors, Alana’s trunk was easy enough to find. I ran my hand across the familiar metal working before heaving the lid open. Carefully, I set aside the bundle swaddled with a blue cloth- I didn’t need to unwrap the silken fabric to know the shade of the well worn toe shoes was a near perfect match to the rosy hue of Alana’s cheeks when her act was done- and brought out the thick, braided rope that curled beneath. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” I said, not looking up from my task of retying and reenforcing the tightrope’s knots one last time.

Alana settled on a nearby trunk and watched silently as I worked.

“They offered me a place in their show,” she said, finally.

“I know.”

“I don’t suppose they-”

“No.” When she sniffed in annoyance I couldn’t help but smile at the familiar noise. I wasn’t a great conversationalist, not when so much of my life had been spent with my head bent over and my hands laboring. Alana, who had been raised among respectable society and could put on the airs to prove it, had been trying to break me of my habitual terseness. “They seem to have as many laborers as they need.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to finish tying these knots-”

“ _Will_ ”

“-and then I’ll see where the wind takes me.”

It’s always been hard for me to look anyone in the eye- it’s too intimate, too overwhelming, so when I finally managed to make myself look up, I’m surprised by the sight of her blue eyes rimmed with red.

“Tears, Miss Bloom?” My words come out wry and mean and I wish I could take them back as soon as they leave my lips.

“Will, please, don’t be cruel.”

“I’m sorry,” I said and meant it. 

“I know what you feel for me and I know my own feelings for you pale in comparison-”

_Now who’s the cruel one?_

“-but I do value your friendship. I have, these past three years, enjoyed your company and I do care about what happens to you. I’m sorry if that’s not enough-”

“Alana,” I interrupt. “It is enough. It’s more than enough.”

“Well, good,” she said, and the challenge in her voice was fierce and I can’t help but laugh in surprise. Soon she, too, was laughing. 

“You are maddening,” Alana said as she scrubbed her hands across her eyes.

“It has been said of me before.”

“With good reason!” She sighed and leaned back. “There has to be some way... ”

Suddenly Alana sat up, her spine straight and determined. I knew that stance well, it was the same as the one she took whenever an audience was unruly- throwing things and cussing- and she was about to take the ring.

“Come with me.”

There was a small cadre of men surveying the few undesirable horses the collectors had left behind. Amongst them I recognized the weasel that had let us laborers go a short while ago. 

“Mr. Crawford,” Alana said, and the men all hurried to lift their hats for her. 

To my surprise it wasn’t the weasel that replied, but instead a large man with dark skin that stepped forward. “Miss Bloom, how can I help you?”

Crawford was a serious, imposing man- well dressed and clearly well mannered, too. The felicitous way he addressed Alana, however, was reassuring. No matter how this played itself out, I could take comfort that Alana was following a man that would treat her with the respect she deserved. 

“I was recently informed that Will Graham was told his services would no longer be required, but I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. Mr. Graham is absolutely essential to my act and without his assistance I’m afraid I simple will not be able to join your circus.”

Crawford nodded away the other men and, when they were a conspicuous distance away, he turned his attention to me. I could feel his keen eye as it skimmed down my body, taking in my sweat-soiled clothes, my dirty hands, my unkempt hair. What’s more, I had the sense he was able to see more than that, that he could see in equal measure the unsteadiness of my inebriated frame, the skittishness of my gaze. 

“Is that so?” he asked, not unkindly, but there was skepticism in his tone. “What sort of services do you provide, Mr Graham?”

“I’m a working man, sir. I work the sledge gang and where ever else has need of me.”

“He’s being modest,” Alana cut in, advocating on my behalf. “Mr. Graham is the only person I trust to rig my rope. He’s a genius with knots and has a sharper eye than any I’ve met before.”

“You’re good with knots?”

I nodded, but elaborated further at Alana’s less-than-subtle elbow jab. “My father was a fisherman in Louisiana.”

“Is that so? Louisiana. Tell me, Mr Graham, if you were to join my wagons would you have a problem taking orders from a man like me?”

“No, sir,” I answered truthfully. My father may have had his opinions, but I never did share his views on the differences between the races. 

Crawford came in close, still observing, still drawing conclusions. 

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, sir.”

I am observed again, but to what purpose I couldn’t say. 

“There’s no room for drunks in Crawford and Brothers. I expect excellence from any that join us, and laborers are no exception.” 

“I understand.”

“Will that be a problem?” 

“No, sir.”

“See that it isn’t,” His demeanor was grave and I couldn’t help but sense that here was a man that was not to be crossed. “Very well. I’m sure we can find a place for you, Mr. Graham. With the understanding that, should you prove less 'absolutely essential' than Miss Bloom says, you will be asked to leave.”

“I understand.”

We hadn’t been traveling for half a day when my hands start shaking and I can’t seem to make them stop. The headache and sweat that I had initially attributed to the ungodly August heat that had gotten trapped inside the train car along with the horse feed and the twelve other unwashed men was getting worse. I gritted my teeth and crossed my arms fiercely around my chest, my hands tucked under my elbows: out of sight, out of mind.

The other men laughed and spoke, but they had mostly ignored me since I had sat in as far a corner as I could manage. Not that I minded- talking to people was no pleasure for me during the best of times. The car lunged, swayed sickeningly on the track, and I buried my wet forehead into a burlap sack. I took no comfort in the coarse material.

“You all right over there?” a rough voice called over.

I didn’t answer, just set my teeth and pushed my head further into the feed sack.

“Your dukie bag is over here, if you’re getting hungry for lunch.”

The though of eating had more of a deleterious effect on my stomach than all the swaying of the car and the heat of the day put together. 

“Leave him alone, Franklin. Can’t you see he’s dryin’ out?”

“But I just wanted to-”

“Franklin.”

“If he’s hungry-”

“ _Franklin._ ”

“Fine. Forget it! I’ll eat it, then.”

When the dreams start I don’t fight them, instead I welcome the grotesque images that cut across the darkness, if only because it was a respite from the pain wracking my physical body. In my feverish dreams, the pain wasn’t mine to suffer- _it never was_ \- and for once, that was a relief.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time we rolled into Florissant, Missouri, we’d been on the jump long enough my hands had steadied and the headaches had somewhat subsided. If my two days drying out had left me weakened, well that was no one’s business but my own. Alana had stuck her neck out for me, and I fully intended to prove my worth.

There was more that needed doing here than back with Burke and Basel- more tents to raise, more kinkers to settle in, and more working men to make it all possible- but I soon discovered that size was the only difference. First wagon to be unloaded was the cookhouse, same as with Burke and Basel, and I found that more reassuring than I probably should have. After that it was a simple matter of learning what needed doing, and getting it done.

Before long I found myself lost to the familiar rhythm of the sledge gang, driving the sledgehammer in my hands into the big top’s stakes until my arms became heavy with fatigue. The muscles in my back strained, pains shot along my spine, but I pressed on until finally the side walls had been hung and the big top mushroomed proudly above our heads. 

Still there was more to be done; the smaller tents still needed to be raised.

“Kinkers are goin’ out,” muttered a laborer near me, a man of few words the others had called Tom T. 

I stood, wiping the sweat from my brow, and sure enough there was the parade lined up, performers in place to make their way down to the town proper. Rhinestones winked in the bright morning light, the fine, colorful costumes were a cacophony of cheer and gaiety. My eyes skimmed the line, passing over the ornate cages with their pacing lions and tigers, the herd of camel hitched together like horses, the lone elephant that led them all. 

When I found Alana my heart rattled in my chest, a bittersweet pain that was all too familiar. She sat beside a girl from the East, the two of them talking easily. When Alana laughed I realized I, too, was smiling and I hurriedly looked away, grabbing a sledgehammer to join the gang that was forming around a new stake. 

That brief glimpse of her was all I needed, anyway. It was enough to paint a vivid picture for my acute memory, and in the details I could see she was happy- already settled in and making friends. The costume was something I hadn’t seen on her before, the fabric less worn than she had had with Burke and Basel, the rich burgundy and gold set off her pale complexion, enhanced the pink of her lips, the startling blue of her eyes. Her old parade costume had been a dusty pink, with tiny faded rosettes sewn along the edges and I realized with a sobering jolt that it had served to exaggerate her innocence, something I had come to believe was her very nature. Now she looked every inch a woman, someone worldly and grown, someone who would have no need of a protector- let alone a laborer like me- and the realization made me miss my next swing. 

Tom T pulled up short, tried to give me space to recover my hammer but as fast as he reacted it wasn’t fast enough. 

Pain lacerated my arm as the unforgiving metal came down close to my elbow.

“Somabitch!” Bernie yelled. “Hold! Hold!”

The pain was bad, but I knew it could be worse. I’d seen men’s bones shattered by a hit from a wayward mallet, and though there were sparks of white pain filling my vision, I could feel that nothing was broken.

“Shit, I’m sorry-” Tom T started but I waved away his apology.

“My fault. All my fault.” My words were a pant, air gasped between shocks of pain. 

“Let’s see it, son,” Bernie said but I waved away his concern.

“Coulda been worse. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Let’s keep going.”

When the flag was finally raised at the cookhouse, most of the backyard had been laid out and the spectator’s stands constructed. The parade was back and I could see the kinkers beelining for the dining tent. Bernie called a halt to the work so that we could all break for lunch. As I followed the other men, Bernie fell into step with me.

“How’s the arm?”

“In one piece,” I responded, matching the gruff of his words.

“You’re a tough one, Graham.” He clapped my shoulder, careful to avoid the injured arm. “Thought for sure you was a First of May when I first saw ya.”

“I’ve been around a dog and pony show before.”

Bernie laughed. “Well, son, this ain’t no dog and pony show. Crawford could give Barnum himself a run for his money-”

I stared at the canvas that separated the dining tent in two. I knew somewhere on the other side of that white flap Alana was sitting with her own kind, no doubt still dressed in her borrowed finery.  
“- no, this here is the real deal.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

***

Whether it was the work of an excellent advance team or the spectacle of the parade, a crowd of rubes was starting to gather, the townspeople of Florissant buzzing with an excitement that was electric.

“You Graham?” a roustabout I didn’t recognize asked as he approached.

I nodded shortly.

“Rope walker’s askin‘ for you,” he said pointing to the area of the yard closest to the big top where the performers were gathering. 

If I had thought the parade was a majestic sight, it was nothing compared to the pomp that was assembling for the grand entry. The spec girls were dressed in pristine white chiffons and gold trimming and I was only too aware the last time I had washed my clothes had been four towns and an entirely different employer ago.

“There he is,” Crawford called when he caught sight of me, giving his ring horse a friendly pat. The feathers on the horse’s head shivered when the well-trained mount shook its head. 

“Miss Bloom won’t let any of the hands set up her rope, she says you’re the only man for the job.”

He shooed me toward where Alana was stretching in anticipation of the evening’s show.

“Will! They found you!” Alana twisted her fingers anxiously. She was dressed just as resplendent as she had been during the parade, and appeared just as changed. “I know it’s irrational, but I couldn’t let anyone else rig my rope.”

I nodded to her hands. “Nervous?”

“Oh!” she gasped, her hands flying apart. She laughed ruefully. “You’d think I had never been in a ring before.”

“It’s different now.” 

I turned away, laying the rope out, stretching it long. Alana stooped until she was close, the floating whiteness of her skirt skimmed my mud-caked boots. 

“Not so different,” she murmured, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Maybe not,” but it was a lie. 

Already she was different. In this new place, in these new clothes she was _more_ , somehow. As if whatever she had been before was the memory and _this_ was what we had been trying in vain to recollect. 

“Have a good show,” I said when I was finished with her rope.

“Will,” she said, catching my arm as I turned away. I grunted in pain as the dull throb my injured arm had settled into intensified.

“What-”

“Nothing. There was an accident earlier.” I could see she wanted to find out more but I stepped back and away. “Is there something else I can help you with?”

“Just- please- it’s all so different. Stay nearby. If I know you’re close at hand it’ll be just like before; like nothing’s changed.”

“Of course,” I said, and the smile I was rewarded with chased the shadows of worry from her face.

As the show began I found a place to stand that was out of the way, crossing my arms so that I could hold the injured one up, a small relief from the throb that, with each passing hour, was getting worse. 

I couldn’t say what I was expecting as I watched the grand entry, the band’s brass instruments glittering as they jauntily saluted the performers taking the ring and parading about, but Bernie’s words came back to me as I stood in the dark.

_This ain’t no dog and pony show._

Crawford might only have had one ring, but by god he filled it with enough talent to rival three of Barnum’s. 

The girl I had spied talking to Alana earlier performed an Oriental number high above our heads on a trapeze. With a serene face she contorted her body into extraordinary shapes, as unconcerned by her height as if she had been born to the air. 

Next came an act with the big cats, the ferocious beasts were freed from their cages to the thrill of the crowd. They gasped and screamed as a man demonstrated his complete control of the lions and tigers, who would jump and stand as he saw fit. He had an ordinary face and a kind smile. Maybe it was a trick of the gas lamps but I couldn’t help but notice his eyes belied a cold calculation that left me unsettled, a feeling that must have been mine alone if the exuberance of the crowd was anything to go by. 

Whatever fears that had gripped Alana backstage were gone by the time she stepped onto her rope. Her smile was dazzling, her leotard a sensual, shocking red. Her toe shoes, however, I recognized as the same worn ones she kept wrapped in a blue silk. The sight of those shoes, so familiar, was a relief. 

As changed as she was this, still, was the same. 

Her balance didn’t falter as she rose to the very tip of her toes and as she danced across the rope I realized her act, too, was just the same as before. 

The applause that followed her was thunderous, but it was nothing compared to what heralded the end of the illusionist’s performance. 

As the last of the clapping for Alana’s act trickled away, a murmur from the crowd began to take its place. 

Up until now Crawford had been a very real presence in the ring. The authoritative gravitas that he had used to introduce each new act had become familiar and now that he was gone, his absence was like a yawning chasm. The stands creaked as the rubes shifted uneasily, and I, too, could feel a strange restlessness come over me. It wasn’t until a pain shot through my arm that I realized my good hand had begun to tighten where it held on to my injured one. I forced myself to relax, to breathe, but still when the man in gentlemanly dress entered the ring, like the lion tamer’s cats before, I found myself waiting in earnest for this man to command me.

He didn’t speak, instead his eloquent hand pierced the dusty air, and in walked his equally glacial assistant. 

The few magic acts I had seen before had been hackneyed affairs, the magician’s skill was always far less impressive than his girls’ shapely calves and teasing breasts. Here, though, his assistant was dressed as modestly as any Madison Avenue matriarch, yet there was something in the way she held herself, in her sure strides as she walked across the ring to press her back to a notched wooden board, that was more sensual than any coochie girl I’d ever seen. 

Something flew through the air with such speed the gaslights barely had time to glint across it’s surface before it was buried in the wood near the assistant's neck. 

More than one lady in the crowd screamed. 

Another knife appeared in the magician’s hand. It was as if the sharp instrument had been plucked from the very darkness that lingered on the spotlight’s edge. He threw it and again it landed with precision, as did the next and the next, until the woman’s body was outlined in glittering, sinister blades.

But that was only the beginning.

Doves appeared and disappeared with abandon. He rolled up his sleeves and fire was conjured by his bare hands. A sheet appeared, covering his assistant who them seemed to levitate from the table she was resting on and when he snatched it away, it was revealed she, too, had disappeared. 

When she returned in a matter of seconds in an entirely new dress, the applause was loud. 

When it dawned on us spectators that the magician, too, had changed from his black suit to an immaculate white set of tails while in full view of the audience, the clapping was thunderous. 

Despite the pain in my arm, I couldn’t help but also be swept up in the rapturous fervor, clapping for the incredible feats I had just witnessed. 

It wasn’t until the illusionist left the ring that I realized my heart was beating as fast as if I had been running for my life.


	3. Chapter 3

Even though the flag at the dining tent had long since been raised, the next morning found me still sitting on the sleep pallet I had been assigned. My shirt was crumpled into an unhappy ball in my lap. Trying to straighten my arm enough to slide the damned sleeves on had proven beyond my ability; during the night my arm had been replaced with something unmovable, the skin from elbow to shoulder had turned as black as ink.

“They’re gonna lower the flag pretty soon,” Bernie warned as he stepped into the sleeping tent. “Better get a move on, it’s a long time until lunch and plenty of work to still be had.”

“I’m working on it.”

Bernie whistled through his teeth as he stepped closer and got his first look at my arm. 

“Thought you said it was fine, Graham.”

I laughed, bitter gallows humor. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Better get it checked out, you’re no use to anyone like this.”

“I can’t afford to send for a doctor,” and it was true: I hadn’t seen a cent of my wages with Burke and Basel for so long I hadn’t a penny to my name. 

“No need for that, we’re a civilized outfit. We have a doctor on premises.”

“You do?” I asked, confused. I hadn’t seen a medical tent go up- hell, I hadn’t _put up_ a medical tent for that matter.

“Well, not officially speaking,” Bernie said as he draped my shirt around my shoulders, a small concession to modesty. “But our doc’ll hafta do.”

Bernie walked beside me through the ‘yard, toward a cluster of performer’s wagons. 

“Oh for the love of- NO, FRANKLIN, THE _OTHER_ GILLY WAGON,” Bernie shouted across the lot where the stout roustabout was struggling with a cart. 

“Christ. Here, Graham, that’s where you’re goin’-” he pointed “-lemme know what the doc says when you finish up. FRANKLIN, LEAVE IT. LEAVE IT.”

When I rapped on the wagon’s door I found myself faced with the illusionist from last night’s performance. He was dressed in casual attire, his sleeves rolled up and his feet bare. His hair fell gently across his forehead, giving him a more boyish appearance than when he had commanded such attention in the ring, but it was unmistakably the same man.

When I hazarded a quick glance upwards I could see his dark eyes were looking at me, expectingly, though he didn’t say a word.

“Bernie said you were a doctor,” I said finally breaking the silence.

“Among other things,” he said, his voice amused, his words rounded with an accent I couldn’t place. “Please, come in.”

Inside, the illusionist’s wagon was everything the rest of the circus encampment was not: clean, well-ordered, and cohesive. There was art on the wall and adornments here and there, though not at the expense of functionality. Books lined a respectable shelf and I didn’t have to inspect them to _know_ they were ordered by subject and alphabetized. 

“How do you prevent the books from falling off the shelves when we’re moving out?” the question was out of my mouth before I even realize I had spoken.

“Magic,” he replied blandly. If he found my non-sequitur unexpected, I couldn’t tell it by the quickness of his quip. “What seems to be the trouble Mister...”

“Graham,” I supplied. “Will Graham. The trouble is my arm had an ill-timed meeting with a sledgehammer yesterday.”

“Ah,” he said, indicating a chair I should sit in. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He examined my arm with sharp, interested eyes. “When the injury occurred did you hear anything? Like a cracking or popping sound?”

“No.”

Thoughtfully he prodded the edges of the blackened bruise, ran a careful hand over the site of impact that had swollen considerably during the night. He inspected each of my fingers in turn, resting them on his cheek as he considered thoughtfully. 

I was suddenly too-aware of the sharpness of his cheekbones, of the way the light filtered through the wagon’s small window to cut a swathe against his unblemished skin- light and shadow bisected in equal parts. 

“What do you think, Doctor, am I going to live?” I tried to be flippant but my throat had become strangely dry, for what reason I couldn’t say. 

He lips quirked, a small acknowledgement of my words. “I was testing to see if your fingers were cooler than they ought to be, whether blood was still circulating properly through your arm.”

“And?”

“And I think you are a lucky man, Mr. Graham.”

“So we won’t be needing to amputate the limb?” I asked cheekily and received another small smile.

“Not today. Can you straighten your arm?”

“Not without a great deal of pain.”

“Then leave it where it is. Often times the body knows instinctively what’s the best way to promote its own recovery. Keep the limb immobilized and if the bruising doesn’t fade in a week come back to see me.” Rummaging through a drawer he returned with a length of white fabric in one hand and a freshly laundered shirt in the other. 

“What’s that for?”

“I would like to make you a sling, so you aren’t tempted to move the arm while it heals.”

“What about the shirt?”

This time his smile was wide. “Well, for decency’s sake I thought it best if you were clothed before I bind your arm. And, forgive my forwardness, but your shirt has seen better days.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic, even if it was a strangely intimate process as he helped guide my arm into the sleeve of his shirt and buttoned the front. I tried to remain motionless, my eyes desperately darted around, looking anywhere but at the blond head bent to its task. 

The shirt hung strangely, his frame being larger than my own but not unpleasantly so.  
As he secured the sling around my chest I couldn’t help but notice the muscles that shifted beneath his clothes as he worked. He might not be a roustabout or an acrobat, but he was strong, of that I was certain. 

“I saw your act last night,” I said impulsively, anxious to break the silence.

“Oh? How did you find it?”

“Extraordinary,” I replied honestly. 

“I’m glad you thought so. Tell me, Mr Graham, have you had breakfast yet?”

By the time we arrived at the cookhouse three things were made clear to me- the magician’s name was Dr. Lecter; he was well liked by everyone we came upon, regardless of their position; and the flag for breakfast was no longer raised.

“I have an understanding with the cookhouse,” Dr. Lecter explained, side stepping the dining tent in order to pass into an area where men were stirring pots and chopping onions. No one looked up when we entered and made our way to a far corner with its own cooking supplies, all tellingly well-organized. “I prefer to cook my own meals.”

With my good arm, I helped as best as I could, though mostly I watched as the hands that had conjured fire the night before now cracked eggs and heated sausage.

“Come. Now we eat.”

I’d never been on the performer’s side of a dining tent before, and even though it had yet to be fully cleared of the morning meal, it was still nicer than what we had on the other side of the tent flap. Real table clothes covered the tables. We sat in actual chairs as opposed to cramming onto long benches filled with errant splinters. 

“I’m sure I’m not supposed to be here.”

Dr. Lecter waved away my concern. “As the headliner I’m entitled to some privileges. It was the only way Jack could secure my contract.”

I took a bite of the food he had prepared and, like everything else I had seen the other man do, it was exemplary. 

“How did you wind up here? If you don’t mind my asking,” I added hurriedly. “I’ve just never seen a magician of your caliber in a circus before.”

“That’s because it’s extremely difficult to perform illusions when one is surrounded on all sides by the audience. The larger tricks rely entirely on anticipating where the audience is looking and making certain that what they shouldn’t see stays out of sight.” He was deliberate as he worked his knife and fork across his plate. “When I first met Jack I was performing in a theatre in London that had been designed entirely to my specifications: trap doors, mechanical pulleys, all manner of modern contraptions. Here I don’t have that luxury, not when the stage I share also must accommodate lions and elephants and acrobats.”

“Why did you leave it behind? I’m sure you found plenty of success in the theatre.”

“For the challenge. Any magician with money enough can buy their way to greatness on the stage. Here, though, performing requires skill and ingenuity.”

“And how did a magician come by medical learning?”

Dr. Lecter set his fork down with a meaningful sound. “Quid pro quo- I tell you things, you tell me things.”

I smiled down to my plate. “Fair enough.”

“What led you, Will Graham, to the circus life?”

“I had nowhere else to go- nowhere to call home- and the circus was as good employment as any.”

He accepted this answer with a considering nod. “Before I was an illusionist I studied medicine in a London college, though I found myself ill suited to the profession. Your turn: if you had nowhere to _be_ , then was there something you were running away _from_?” 

Even though I knew, logically, that he was merely making polite conversation I could feel my shoulders raise defensively as my heart began to pound, frantically preparing for an attack. 

I looked down and my hand no longer held a fork, my imagination stirred and I could see my knuckles were covered in blood. So much blood.

_Like they had been that night._

“Mr. Graham?”

Dr. Lecter’s voice pulled me from my reverie and I blinked furiously as I remembered where I was.

Morning light. Breakfast. 

The dining tent.

I forced my hand to relax where it had tightened to a fist around my fork.

“I apologize,” Dr. Lecter was saying. “Please, forgive the intimate nature of my question.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, dispelling the darkness that had descended so rapidly. “I’m sorry. I was just- I was-”

“Mr. Graham,” Dr Lecter broke in again, this time his voice was stern but not ill-intentioned. “Everyone has their secrets. I sometimes think we have them here in the circus more than anyone else out in the ordinary world. Why else would any of us be here, if not to escape the confines of the ordinary?”

I huffed a laugh. “That’s true enough. I guess we’re all oddities here.”

“We are not oddities,” he corrected. “We are merely extraordinary.” 

“Extraordinary,” I snorted, but when he raised his water glass in a toast, I good-naturedly followed suit.


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, while there might not be a lot of work to be done by a laborer with one good arm, there was still _some_ work that needed doing that could accommodate my injury. Word had traveled from on high that we would be moving on after last show of the day and someone needed to go pick up the mail that had been forwarded to town in anticipation of catching up with our route. 

The sun was up, the road lonely, and I was content to let the long walk into town lull my mind. One foot stepped in front of the other, dust rising and settling as I walked, and in the clouds I could see the show from the previous night.

 _Make certain that what they shouldn’t see stays out of sight_ , the illusionist had said, and now that I knew what to look for it was an interesting exercise to revisit Dr Lecter’s performance and deconstruct what all I recollected.

The morning light dimmed around me and was replaced by gaslight. Anticipating where the audience would be looking I followed the lines of sight that hung like spider’s webs- the thin tendrils silver in the faint light- from their eyelashes to the board that his sensual partner stood braced against. Time stilled, actions just measured enough that I could move freely around this remembered scene, investigating for clues.

Every breath took an eternity, every blink a lifetime.

Dr. Lecter moved slowly- so very slowly- until his body had pivoted and, as his skillfully thrown knife came a whisper away from his assistant’s throat, I saw it. The tell tale flick of his hand disappearing into the small of his back before drawing a new blade from the air around him. 

Now that I knew what to look for, the images sped up and I could see with clarity the moments he took advantage of, the times when the webs were looking right and he moved left. 

It was a skilled dance of premeditated expectation and slights of hand, and I felt a jittering satisfaction at playing witness to it. 

A piteous yelp sliced like a shard of glass through my reverie. My heart quickened, and my eyes automatically flickered about, searching, as my body braced against the threat.

Further down the road I could see a cluster of five or six boys. A commotion, a cheer, and another yelp pierced the air.

“Hey!” I yelled, striding toward them. “Hey!”

They fled like the cowards they were, leaving their victim behind as they ran toward a farm house perched in the distance. 

Now that I was closer I could see the pitiful excuse for a mutt that still lay where the boys had left him. Dirt clumped his fur, so dark it was hard to tell whether he was that color by birth or through a lifetime of misfortune. Though he whimpered when I approached, he made no move to get away when I squatted by his head. 

“Hello there,” I said, keeping my voice soothing. “I’ll bet you don’t belong to anyone, do you?”

The mutt took a half hearted sniff of my hand and then turned away, which I took for permission to scratch lightly at his ears. There was a crude leash made of rope around his neck, something I supposed the boys had used to lead him from where ever they had found him. As I slipped it off, the dog’s tail gave a tired wag, his wet eyes watching me carefully. 

“That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’re hungry, but I’ve nothing to give you,” with one final pat I stood. “You better get to going before those boys return.”

While I felt a pang of guilt at leaving the wretched creature where he was, I didn’t see any way around it. I hadn’t made it three paces when I heard a groan from behind. When I turned I saw the mutt had struggled to his feet and was gingerly limping after me. 

“I have nothing for you,” I warned, but still the dog followed. 

We made an odd pair as we walked in to town, the dog with his limp and me with my bandaged arm, though I kept my head up and my gaze firmly ahead as I found the post office and picked up the bundle that was waiting there. 

I half-expected the dog to find something more interesting than me, especially among the smells and sounds of the town, but instead he followed me the long stretch of road back to the circus encampment. There we raised far less attention, since the yard was filled with strange animals and unkempt men like me, we hardly attracted more than a passing glance.

As I could count on one hand the names I knew of the folk that made up Crawford and Brothers, my first stop was the big top where already a few acrobats were preparing their bodies for the day’s shows. Among them I found Alana, her legs splayed as she read a book while balancing in her front split. 

I watched as her face brightened in greeting only to fall as she took in my bandaged arm.

“Oh!” she gasped, setting aside her reading and scrambling to her feet. “What-”

“It’s fine,” I said, reassuring her as I laid my burden down on a nearby bench. “I’ve already had it seen to, so there’s no cause for alarm.”

Alana narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but she seemed to take me at my word.

“Until it heals, I’m delivering the mail,” I told her, nodding to the bundle in my arm. 

She blinked, disbelieving.

“ _You’re_ delivering the mail?”

“I think it’s because I’m so personable and outgoing,” I confided, my words serious, and was rewarded when Alana started to giggle helplessly.

In the air, dusty with acrobat’s chalk and kicked up sawdust, her face was luminous. I felt my heart stir in my chest, struck anew at the sight of her.

“I guess they don’t know you very well yet.”

“Nor I them,” I admitted, rueful. “Which is what is making my task somewhat complicated.”

“I can imagine,” Alana said as she sifted through the bundles, withdrawing the largest packet wrapped in brown paper, reading: “Jack Crawford. This one is easy enough. Though the rest...”

She shook her head, as at a loss as I was. 

“Beverly might know,” she said, waving over a woman who was hanging from a low hanging trapeze bar and bringing her toes to her hands using the impressive strength of her abdominal muscles. 

It was easy to see why Alana had chosen Beverly to be her touchstone as she learned the ins and outs of this new place. If Beverly’s trapeze act had relied rather heavy handedly on the romance of Orientalism that was very much in fashion, listening to her speak I could now understand it was a shrewd move, one born out of a keen mind. 

As she helped sort the mail, Beverly’s wit was readily apparent. Her dry commentary on those whose names she did recognize from my pile of mail proved useful as I went around matching names to faces I knew only by Beverly’s descriptions. The mutt was never far behind as I made my rounds. 

Finally there was only one bundle left to deliver. 

I had had some vague notion of avoiding Crawford for the foreseeable future; keeping my head down until I was no longer in the sling. He hadn’t been impressed by what he saw at our first meeting when I had been intoxicated. No reason to make him realize I was just as useless now that I only had one good arm to work with. 

But there was no use for it.

“You’re going to have to stay here,” I said to the dog over my shoulder, stepping up the short set of stairs to the door of Jack Crawford’s wagon. 

Inside I could hear voices. 

I squared my shoulders, tucked the bundle under my bandaged arm, and knocked. I’d prepared myself for a hasty hand off but when Crawford opened the door his expression was serious.

“Mr. Graham,” he said before holding a finger up and disappearing back behind the door. A moment later the door opened again and he was shaking the hand of a man dressed in a policeman’s overcoat and bowler hat.

Immediately my heart began racing- _it was year’s ago, no reason he should be here for_ that- but all the same I kept my chin tucked and my posture slouched as the policeman and Crawford finished with their business. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Crawford.”

“I will be sure to contact you if I hear of anything that might be of service, but like I said before I’m not sure how much help I can be.” Crawford turned his attention to me. “Mr. Graham, come on in.”

“I’m just here to deliver-” I tried, but he interrupted.

“All the same, come on in. There’s some business I wanted to discuss with you.”

If Dr. Lecter’s quarters had been a respite for the performer, Jack Crawford’s was clearly the epicenter of his entire enterprise. On his walls there were route maps, his desk was piled high with correspondence, but even through the chaos of business there was a meticulous order to it all. 

“I have your mail,” I said, holding the bundle for Crawford to take.

“Ah, thank you,” he said as he sat behind his desk. He easily found a knife and cut through the twine to reveal letters, yes, but also a pile of newspapers from various cities, quite a few months old judging by the dates. “Please. Sit.”

As he casually perused the headlines I couldn’t help but spot a photograph of a girl on his desk. She was pretty, probably seventeen, with pale skin, dark hair. Her dress was modest, and there was a nice sized locket on a chain that hung around her neck. 

“‘Columbian Exposition a Triumph.’ ‘The White City Astounds,’” he read aloud, his voice musing, as he passed me a newspaper to examine. “It seems the world has been swept up in World’s Fair fever- the papers seem to be talking about little else.”

“Not entirely,” I said as I folded the newspaper so that the story of a man decapitated by a streetcar in Philadelphia was more visible.

“Another victim of the modern age. Sometimes it seems that the more we advance, the more ways there are to die. Or to disappear.” Crawford picked up the girl’s photograph on his desk and turned it upside down. He steepled his fingers and braced his elbows on the desk before him. “You watched the show last night. Tell me, Mr. Graham, how did you find our circus?”

“Astounding,” I answered honestly.

“I like to think it is,” Crawford said, relaxing back into his chair. “We are a modest outfit, but I tell myself we make up for that in talent. I was pleased to finally watch Miss Bloom’s act, after hearing so much about it through the grapevine.”

“I imagine it was a relief to find your gamble paid off.”

“Indeed it was,” Crawford acknowledged with a chuckle. There was an ease to the way he spoke, a casual air could almost fool me into believing as if I, and I alone, were his sole confidant. 

No wonder his people were so loyal to him. I had yet to hear a single roustabout or kinker say a bad thing about him, which in this business was a rarity.

It made me wonder what it was he was hiding behind that genial face of his. 

“I actually had a thought as I watched Miss Bloom’s act and I wanted to get your opinion on the matter.”

“ _My_ opinion?”

“After seeing how much she depended on your expertise in setting up her rope, it’s clear she trusts you.”

“I wouldn’t presume to know what Miss Bloom thinks of me,” I said blandly and if Crawford was surprised I didn’t take the bait of his flattery he didn’t show it.

“I want to take Miss Bloom’s act up onto a highwire.”

My heart plummeted to my stomach at the thought of Alana in the air, balancing on her toes with nothing but sawdust to catch her. 

“She has never performed on a highwire before,” I said, careful to keep my voice impassive.

“Then maybe this is the time for her to start. I enjoyed her performance, but there was something missing. A sense of danger, something to set it apart from any other rope walker routine the audience has ever seen before. The toe shoes are a nice touch, but think of how much more daring, how much more exciting to watch her on her toes twenty feet in the air.”

“I think that’s something for Miss Bloom to decide. I fail to see where I-”

“She trusts you. With her safety and thus with her life. If you were to speak with her about it, smooth the way, so to speak...”

“If Miss Bloom wishes to take her act into the air I will do everything in my power to ensure her safety. But it has to be her decision, Mr. Crawford.”

“Of course,” Crawford said, bowing his head in acknowledgement. 

“If that’s all,” I said, standing and Crawford follow suit to walk me to the door. 

It wasn’t until the door closed behind me that I realized Crawford had made no mention of my injury at all. 

“I guess I won’t be red-lighted today,” I said to the dog that was waiting patiently for my return. 

The mutt gave his tail a single thump.

“I should see about giving you a bath,” I said, scratching at his ear. “And a name.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Wha do you wan?” 

The man in charge of the stables was an odd-looking man with a shuffle to his gate, as if he were as tentative in step as he was in speech. His voice was halting and had a peculiar softness to it that I had to lean in closer to hear. 

It wasn’t rude, the way he spoke, but it was off-putting, as was his hunched posture and the unkemptness of his wispy hair. His gaze was even more illusive than my own, which was saying something, and I could tell by the way he continued to turn away from me the closer I got- like cornered prey- that life had not been kind to this man.

“I was hoping for some water-” I started, but stopped when his head began to shake side to side in agitation.

“Tha water is for the horses. It’s for the horses. Jack says I gotta take care of the horses, thas who gets the water firs. Then anyone who wanna bathe or wash their clothes can get the rest. But horses firs. Horses always go firs”

“I understand that,” I said, my voice instinctively turning soft as his, allowing this man the distance he needed in space as well as sound. “Of course I wouldn’t want to take water away from the horses. I was just hoping to give my new friend here a rinse, but if that’s not possible, I can wait until the horses have had their fill.”

“Friend?” he asked, curiously tilting his head to catch a sideways glance at the dog at my feet. “You gotta dog, there?”

“A most dirty one, yes.”

The man was silent for so long I could almost believe he had forgotten my presence if it wasn’t for the small, agitated way his hands opened and closed. Just as I had begun to resign myself to the fact I would be sharing sleep with a dog that looked more varmint than canine, the man said in a capitulating murmur, “Use Leonard’s trough.”

Washing a dog with one arm pinned to my chest without getting wet myself was an exercise in futility, especially one as keen to get clean as this one. I threaded the fingers of my good hand through the mutt’s matted fur, squeezing to release the tar dark water that seeped out, but it was slow going. 

When the odd, shuffling man settled at my side and took over, it was as surprising at it was a relief. 

“Wha’s his name?” he asked, almost shyly, into the silence.

“Hasn’t got a name. Though if you’d like to do the honor,” I offered, but he shrunk back as he shook his head.

“Naw my honor to do.”

I thought for a moment.

“Winston.” I said and he nodded as if the name struck him as a good one.

“Winston,” he repeated.

“I’m Will,” I said in an off-handed manner, my eyes trained on the dog before me.

“Peter.”

Peter was silent as he worked the knots from Winston’s fur with a hand that was gentle and sure. 

“You’re good at that,” I commented. There was something in Peter, something so broken and pitiable, that made me wish to reach out to him. Here was a kindred spirit, someone who enjoyed the company of man even less than I, and it made me want to show him kindness.

“I like animals,” he said, as if that were an answer, and I suppose it was. 

It was never fully quiet in the ‘yard- not really- but there was a peacefulness in this darkened train car-turned-stable, where the only sounds were the sluicing of water and the swishing of horses’ tails. Occasionally the chitter of conversation outside would swell, but it would soon fall away as those conversing walked by. Peter took one of the rags hanging out and used it to rub at Winston’s fur until it started to dry. When that work was done, he carefully examined the dog’s now-ginger fur and applied an ointment to the abrasions he found.

Without much by way of warning, the door to the car flew open and a girl of no more than sixteen strode in, seemingly oblivious to the chaos she kicked up in her wake as the horses whinnied and stomped uneasily at her abrupt entrance.

“Just need rope,” she announced, rushing to where some was coiled, held in place by a nail in the wall. 

“You’re scaring the horses,” Peter stood, as agitated as his charges. “The horses-”

“I know, I know, I know, I won’t be but a minute,” her long, brown hair was pulled back in a simple, uncomplicated fashion, and I could see she was pretty, with pale skin and wide, blue eyes. “I was feeding the big cats with Father, they can probably smell the blood on me.”  
“Please,” Peter was still stammering. “The horses are scared. Please.”

“There! I’ve got it, I’m leaving,” the girl left as quickly as she had come. 

I tried to thank Peter before I, too, left, but he was too busy soothing his horses to pay much attention to me. 

***

Two towns and six days later I stood in the big top’s abandoned ring, the ground still scattered with the detritus from the last show, watching as Alana tied the ribbons of her toe shoes around her ankles.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” she said, tucking the ribbon ends secure behind the delicate bone of her ankle. “But I’d like to try.”

My fingers itched to climb back up the ladder’s twenty feet to check the rope’s safety once more, but I knew rationally it was as secure as it could be. 

“You’re not too tired?”

“Will,” she chided. “I’m feeling fine. Are you sure _you’re_ not tired? You’re the one that raised a tent before the sun was up, not me.”

“I’m fine,” I said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. The pain from my not-quite recovered arm was more than enough to keep me alert, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “Are you ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Alana gave Winston- who was never far from my side most evenings- a final pat and received a lick and a fond tail wag for her trouble. 

When she’d heard the mutt’s name for the first time, the small, private smile she had given me had made my heart lurch in that familiar bittersweet way it always did. 

_”Winston?”_ She’d said, and I’d shrugged at her. _”That’s where you joined up, all those years ago.”_

_“Winston, North Carolina?”_ Beverly had asked, looking between the two of us, as if with enough study she could divine all of our secrets.

_“That’s where I saw you for the first time,”_ I’d said to Alana, looking past her and into the distance, uncomfortable. _”That sort of thing lingers. Makes an impression.”_

_“Ah.”_ Beverly had said, and from the pity in her voice I could hear that she about had the long and short of it. 

Alana climbed the ladder and I followed her, a long balancing pole tucked beneath one of my arms. When Alana was at the ladder’s end, I handed her the pole and made my way back down to the ground. Even from this distance I could see her eyebrows pinched in grim determination. Her first step onto the rope was tentative, the pole balanced equally so that the stretched ends reached out into the empty air around her. 

A second step and I was keenly aware of every inch of the twenty feet she stood in the air. With each step Alana’s expression smoothed out, the fear slowly draining from her face. My jaw ached and I realized my teeth were clenched. I let out a breath and forced myself to relax. Alana was fine, I could see it in the easy grace of her walk. 

I knew she sometimes practiced with the pole, but I had never actually seen her with it before. The ends swooped like giant wings, but she stayed aloft. Her triumphant smile when she reached the end of the rope was bright- exultant- and I felt that familiar bolt in my chest at the sight of it. 

Somewhere in the distance I could see in my periphery as a form entered the ring, but I had eyes only for Alana as she turned and made her way back across the rope. It was a superstition, but I couldn’t help but feel that if my attention on her wavered so would her balance. 

“Wonderful,” a voice said by my side, vowels curling.

It was a voice that was easy to place, for all that I had avoided the man since that breakfast we had shared in the kinker’s dining tent.

“Doc,” I greeted, my eyes never straying from Alana, where I assumed he, too, was captivated.

“Is this Miss Bloom’s first walk at this height?”

I hummed in the affirmative.

“She is quite astounding, isn’t she?” he mused. “Walks as if she hasn’t the slightest ounce of fear in her.”

“She doesn’t. I’m the fearful one.”

“Ah,” Dr. Lecter said and I could feel him studying me. “That’s quite a generous burden you bear for a friend.”

I shrugged, noncommittally.

“I wanted to thank you for returning my shirt to me, Mr. Graham, although I was disappointed I didn’t get the chance to examine your arm once more before you removed your sling.”

“There was work to be done,” I said impassively enough, studiously ignoring the memory of that first examination and the unexpected intimacy of it. 

The more often I thought back to the morning I spent in the company of the magician, the more uncomfortable I became for what reason I could not say. It was why I had left his shirt and sling folded in a neat stack in front of his door at a time I knew I would not encounter him. It was why I had taken to leaving the tent as soon as Alana’s act was done, before the magician took the ring. It wasn’t that Dr. Lecter wasn’t just as compelling to watch as the first time I had seen his act. He was, and a darker, hidden part of me suspected that that was entirely the problem. 

“Of course,” he said, and I couldn’t help but feel I was being mocked. “Perhaps some day, then, when you find you have a moment to spare you will come visit with me.”

“Why?”

If he found my bluntness anything but amusing I couldn’t say.

“I enjoyed the conversation we shared at breakfast, and thought perhaps we might make a habit of it. Who knows, one day we might even become friends.”

From her height far above our heads Alana beckoned me to take the pole from her hands. 

“I don’t find you that interesting,” I said over my shoulder and if he had a retort to that, I moved too quickly by to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long I'm not sure if anyone will still be reading this story but, if you are, I wanted to say that I've had a lot going on IRL these last few months but fear not! Now that I'm back I fully intend to finish this thing


	6. Chapter 6

The carnival spirit was in full effect at Crawford Brothers Circus that night, with rubes lined up to the ticket counter for hours before the show had even started. I’d never seen a town with such a hunger for the circus as Lowell, from the cheering reception the Parade had gotten that afternoon- so loud we could hear it even as we raised the big top- to the jostling crowd filling the lot.

“They have good taste,” Bernie muttered when I mentioned as much. “This kind of crowd, I wouldn’t be surprised if Crawford decides to forgo the route book. Stay on here an extra day or two.”

“He’d be a fool not to take their money.”

“Crowd like this, we won’t be the only one looking to take their money. Keep a sharp eye out for pickpockets tonight,” he said. “We may be a moral show, but there’s no accountin’ for the morality of them rubes and if anything happens you know who will be the first to get the blame.”

I nodded. It was true: I’d seen towns blame circus folk for everything from a missing watch to bad attendance at church on Sunday. Easier to blame the drifters that’d be gone in a day’s time than gravity or a bad preacher. I never particularly relished it when the shout of _“Hey Rube!”_ went out, though I’d been in enough scuffles to know there were no such things as bystanders when it was _us_ against _them_.

“I’m going to go back and check Miss Bloom’s tightrope, but I’ll keep a lookout.”

“Word is your girl is taking her act up high tonight,” Bernie said, kicking idly at a pile of dirt.

In the month I’d been on with Crawford, I hadn’t gone out of my way to get to know any of the other roustabouts. Still, I knew that Bernie had a kid back in Madison and a liking for Bull Durham chew, just as I knew Tom T’s shoulder acted up on rainy days and any task Franklin was given likely needed to be done twice. If I had gleaned that much about the other workmen in a month, they had clearly been observing me as well. 

Hard to get away with much, when there was always someone watching.

“She’s not my girl.” 

Bernie snorted and shook his head, and I left him to kicking up dust as I made my way to the backyard.

The flicker of a familiar face caught my eye. Through the crowd I could see the pale cheeks and wide blue eyes of the lion tamer’s daughter. Speaking excitedly to a girl her age, her usually pinched face relaxed into a wide smile, I wondered if her father knew she was out here socializing with the rubes. 

Not that it was any of my business. From what I’d seen of Hobbs, he kept as tight a hold on his daughter as he kept on his Cats. I could only imagine it was a relief for her to get out from under his thumb and pretend to be a normal girl for a few precious minutes before it was back to cleaning out cages and living out of a train car. 

Let her enjoy herself. It would be back to the rails before too long anyway, and I doubted there was much trouble she could get up to in the meantime. 

Slipping into the backyard and the organized chaos that resided there, I could feel my stomach pinch painfully with hunger. For all that Crawford did his best to lead an upstanding outfit, even he couldn’t prevent the spoiling of food that was a pervasive threat on the rails. We’d been fed nothing but beans and potatoes for three jumps now and I’d been finding it just as easy to skip eating than to force another mouthful down my throat.

My stomach clenched again as I caught sight of Alana in her white Spec costume, and I firmly told myself it was just another hunger pain, even as I noticed Dr. Lecter lean in to whisper something into Alana’s ear that made her giggle helplessly. 

_Not my girl,_ I reminded myself, and concentrated on checking Alana’s rope one last time before the band struck up the familiar screamers that any child could recognize as the beginning of the show. 

For weeks Alana had been working on her act- every evening without fail after the last show had cleared the ring- and for weeks Dr. Lecter could be found lingering somewhere nearby. He wasn’t disruptive, far from it, he mostly kept to himself as he practiced throwing his knives into a plank of wood from various distances, but just having him there set me on edge. 

It was nothing new to have a man sniffing around Alana, and I’d give Dr. Lecter credit: at least he was perfectly decorous about it. None of his touches lingered overmuch as he greeted her, nor did his words ever turn questionable in my presence. Still, I knew a man courting Alana when I saw it, and it made my already hollow stomach turn icy cold to see the two of them speaking ever more intimately. 

“How does it look, Graham?” 

Crawford was as ready for the show to begin as the rest of his performers, his white top hat resting in the crook of his elbow. 

I peered down the ladder for a brief moment before returning to my work. 

“As good as can be.” I took my time, looking over the rope a third, fourth, fifth time. Still, despite my dithering Crawford was waiting for me at the base of the ladder when I came down.

“I wanted to thank you, Graham. For convincing Miss Bloom to attempt her act in the air.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. Miss Bloom decided on her own.”

Crawford studied my face and, though I ducked my head to hide in the shadows cast by the gas lights, I had the uncomfortable feeling he could read me, nonetheless.

“She trusts you. I find in our line of work, when one’s life is at risk, trust is not something that is easily arrived at.” When I only shrugged, he continued. “I hope you will join us in my office after the show. We will be toasting to Miss Bloom’s success, and I know she would want you to be there.”

“I have work to do-” 

“No you don’t. I decided we’ll be staying in this town for another night, so there won’t be anything to strike until tomorrow.”

“My boss warned me off drinking,” I said with a bitter twist of the lips that could hardly be misconstrued as a smile.

Crawford clapped me on the shoulder with a friendly hand. “I’m sure he’ll excuse you this one time. It’s a celebration, after all.”

“A little early to be celebrating,” I muttered. “Miss Bloom hasn’t even walked yet,”

“I have no doubt as to her ability; Dr. Lecter has been keeping me appraised of her progress.”

_Of course he has_. 

The sound of rubes entering the big top made me instinctively turn to retreat out of the ring. 

“Graham,” Crawford said, finger wagging sternly. “I expect to see you there.”

***

Of course Dr. Lecter would be the one to escort Alana in to Crawford’s office, like his place at her side and his hand on her lower back as he ushered her in were the most natural things in the world. 

Still, it was hard to hold on to my irritation at the doctor when Alana’s ebullient grin and energy were so infectious. I found myself smiling along with her as she took my hands in her own and squeezed fondly. 

“Were you out there? Did you watch the show?”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” I told her truthfully. 

The sparkling wine that Crawford provided was somewhat warm, but it didn’t stop the man from toasting to Alana with such lavish praise that she began to blush. I hid my smile behind a gulp of wine but when I turned to make my escape, I was caught by the elbow by Crawford, himself.

“Have another,” he said, less of an offer and more of a command. 

Perhaps it was because I had been dry for over a month, perhaps it was the lack of a proper meal in too long, but it didn’t take more than two glasses of wine before I felt the soft edges of the drink lapping at my brain. My thoughts became pleasantly sluggish, and it was clear I wasn’t the only one. By the second bottle of wine, the color on Alana’s cheeks rose and I could hear her bright, tinkling laugh as Dr. Lecter made a coin appear and re-appear with a deftness that would have been extraordinary to watch if the sight of them huddled together didn’t make an angry heat form in my belly. 

“It isn’t uncommon, for girls to run away,” Crawford was saying and with a blink I forced myself to focus once more on my employer. “Happens all the time; girls get tired of their father’s rules, they run off with a boy, they want to lead a city life. I can’t tell you how often I’ve had parents and private investigators catch up with us after a jump, looking for some runaway or another. Still,” he mused, looking into his glass for answers. “There’s something different about these girls. Something that just doesn’t sit right with me.”

“What-” I started before shaking my muzzled head and trying again. “How many girls?”

“Seven. At least, there have been seven that seem to have the same look to them.”

“Which is?” It was interesting, even if I wasn’t all that sure why Crawford was letting me of all people into his confidence.

“Dark hair. Light skin.” He tipped his head towards the ceiling as he considered the similarities. “Average age around sixteen.”

Alana’s laugh shimmered in the air and I couldn’t help but be drawn to it, like a moth to flame. 

“It’s a mystery,” I muttered, even as my attention waned.

“Will, come over here,” Alana beckoned. “Watch this!”

Dr. Lecter smiled gamely as I approached their corner, though I wasn’t quite able to return the favor as I could better see Alana’s hand clasped firmly between both of his.

“A coin,” Dr. Lecter said, demonstrating with the easy showmanship that he displayed nightly in the ring. As I watched he pressed the coin to the top of Alana’s hand, holding it firm between his palms, and Alana smiled girlishly at the contact. 

“Now watch,” Dr. Lecter said, and without much effort the coin seemed to pass through Alana’s hand, to his waiting beneath. Crawford’s rich chuckle filled his office car and he applauded in appreciation.

“Wonderful,” he intoned, and I nodded along even as I drained the last of my glass.

“Wonderful,” I repeated dully. “I think I’m going to head back.”

Dr. Lecter plucked a deck of cards from the air and shuffled them dexterously. 

“Please, indulge me: one final trick. I so rarely get to do close up magic.”

I tried to back away, but it was hard to deny Alana when she smiled, coaxing me with a merry “Please, Will? Just one more trick.”

“Pick a card,” Dr. Lecter said, fanning the cards for me.

_Three of hearts_

“Now put it back.”

There was more shuffling, some more showmanship and fancy flairs that I normally might have been impressed with but more than anything I just wanted to leave.

“Is this your card?” he asked at last, producing a red queen. 

“No.”

“No? Curious.” He said with a knowing smirk and Alana gave a disappointed huff. Dr. Lecter snapped and pointed toward my feet. “Is that your card?”

Confused, I looked down only to see the edge of a card peaking out from the edge of my boot. Heart thudding suddenly, I reached for it.

_Three of hearts_.

Wordlessly I nodded. I could hear Crawford and Alana laughing merrily, congratulating Lecter on his magic, but it was dim, far away. I didn’t know how he had managed the slight of hand, but I felt violated, to have been touched without having felt it, it was almost like a challenge. A warning. I dared to look up, to capture Dr. Lecter’s dark eyes with my own, and I could see all too well how pleased he was at having unnerved me. 

Dr. Lecter smiled and I knew without question that this whole evening- my having been invited to Crawford’s office, the flirtations with Alana, even all those nights practicing in the ring- they had all been a deliberate means to an end. 

Dr. Lecter liked to play games. It was a lesson I wouldn’t soon forget.


	7. Chapter 7

“Will! Please, wait for me,” I heard Alana call behind me, and though I wanted nothing more than to continue on, I slowed my pace so that she could draw near, more from habit of obeying her wishes than from any actual desire to converse.

“Will-” she began when she caught up, but I gave a quick, curt shake of my head and she fell silent. Without speaking, we fell into step as easily as every other time I had escorted her to her wagon when the hour grew late, another night lost to practicing the new act in the big top, the thudding of Dr. Lecter’s knives sinking into plywood still ringing in my ears.

“I take it you two are courting?” I asked evenly.

“I should have said something sooner,” she said, apology thick in her voice. “It was cruel for you to find out like this, given-”

_Given your feelings_ , I could easily finish and at least she spared me hearing the words out loud. 

“I want you to be happy,” I said, and it was true. Though I was selfish enough to wish that her happiness could be found in me, I wasn’t so selfish that I reveled in the thought of her loneliness. “Does Dr. Lecter make you happy?”

The smile she gave at the sound of the other man’s name was answer enough, though her words were the final smothering in the ember of my hope. “He does.”

“Well that’s something, I suppose.” I swallowed around what felt like a mouth full of gravel. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and her apologies were like gnats, an inescapable nuisance. I shook my head.

“It all seems so-” _unfair_ “-sudden.”

“Not too terribly sudden. We’ve been getting to know one another over breakfast-”

Breakfast. Whatever else she was saying fell away, and instead suddenly I could see all too clearly what was going on on the other side of the cookhouse’s tarp divider. I could see Dr. Lecter, smiling as he sat beside her, the food he himself had cooked on the table before them. I could see Alana as her mind whirred, giddy with possibility at Dr. Lecter’s fleeting touches, his intimate attentions, the nearness of his tilted head. 

I could see his presence in the ring as the nightly flirtation that it was, two points in space: Alana high above, Dr. Lecter on the ground. 

And blind Will Graham. The speck that bisected the two.

From the furrow on Alana’s brow I knew I had lost time to the ruminatings of my imagination. 

I tried for a friendly smile.

The furrow deepened.

“I am glad for your happiness,” I offered and her face softened. “I’m sorry, I was taken off guard. I haven’t been feeling myself, I’ve been having problems sleeping.”

“Nightmares?” she asked.

“To put it mildly.”

Her pearly teeth bit into her lip as she considered me and I forced myself to still under her scrutiny. “Dr. Lecter might have some medicine for that, something to help your mind find quiet.” she said at last. 

I smiled though it didn’t come easily. 

I’d sooner sever my own head than turn to Dr. Lecter, though I only said: “I will keep that in mind.”

She turned to me as we arrived at the familiar worn door of her wagon. 

“He’s a good man, Will,” she said, and I could only nod numbly as she pressed a fond kiss to my cheek before leaving me alone to the night and my thoughts. 

I hadn’t lied to Alana: sleep had been eluding me and I wasn’t so naive as to think that that night would be any different. Rather than turning to the tent that I shared with five snoring workmen, I decided to walk. The air was cooler, now that the sun and hordes had cleared out, and I let myself walk unhampered by thoughts of a particular destination. 

I took comfort in the countryside, such as it was. I had always enjoyed the sprawling outdoors, preferred it to the close stink of city life. Living on the rails had made me come to learn the different tastes and textures in the air of places that I never encountered as a boy. Here there was a dryness, a grittiness, which was something that I rarely encountered as I followed my father from the boatyards of Biloxi to Greenville to Lake Erie. Anywhere, really, that might have need of a man willing to work and knew his way around a line. Anywhere that would turn a blind eye to his habit of drinking away his earnings and knocking around his boy when he got a bit tight. 

Not pleasant memories, and I pushed them out of my mind, instead savoring the thin breeze that would stir every now and then. 

At some point Winston took his place at my side, but he wasn’t a distraction. His companionship was of the silent, steadfast sort. 

Finally, when the muscles of my legs jumped with exhaustion, I decided to try for sleep. The ‘yard was deserted as I crossed it, though just before I entered my tent I caught a glimpse of movement. Hobbs, the lion tamer. Clearly just returning from his own nighttime wanderings. 

It would seem his daughter wasn’t the only one taken to slipping out into the world of rubes. 

His clothes were dark, unremarkable. Quite different from the blood red jacket he wore in the ring.

He didn’t see me, and I didn’t stay out long enough for that to change.

***

It was a good decision, to stay an extra day, because if the crowd yesterday had been impressive, the crowd the next day was downright imposing. 

The rubes pushed each other irritably, the rumble of discontent an audible undercurrent as the crowd pressed eagerly toward the lot. The show was sure to be a turnaway, which, in a crowd like this, could easily become trouble if out big top was unable to fit them all.

“Don’t you have your girl to look after?” Bernie said, eyeing the rubes warily for a second night in a row.

I shook my head. “Looked over everything earlier. Figure you could use an extra eye with this crowd.”

“Or an extra fist,” Bernie agreed gruffly.

It was true, there was the unmistakable stink of trouble thick in the air, though the crowd didn’t cause much more trouble than a yell or two, and even those were mild in difference to the ladies that had come out for the show. As the Parade started up I stayed where I was. My mind could easily conjure the animals in their white plumage, the kinkers in their finery. I didn’t leave my post, not even when I could hear the strains of the band beating out Alana’s tune. 

I told myself I was doing a favor for Bernie, but the truth was I hadn’t the heart to see the act that night.

Instead I stayed outside the tent, arms crossed and expression rough; just another hired brute.

“Hey. Hey, you,” a man said, the distinct smell of liquor on his breath as he leaned a little too close to me. “Hey.”

“Got a ticket?” I asked, voice hard. From his disordered clothes came the biting odor of sweat, his stubbled cheeks were rosy and his dark eyes were glazed. 

I could see him for the lookie-loo hobo he was.

“I lost my pocket watch yesterday,” he slurred. “You seen my pocket watch?”

“No. Got a ticket?”

“Tha’s too bad. I’m just gonna go in and look for it, then.” He stumbled towards the tent and I caught him by the arm, swinging him backwards with his own momentum. “Wha’s the big idea?”

“You can’t go in there without a ticket,” I said firmly and from the outskirts of my vision I could see Bernie and Louie, watching carefully from their posts. 

“Ain’t for more than a minute,” he groused. “Just want to look for my pocket watch, friend.”

“And I’m telling you you can’t go in there. Friend.”

“We got a problem here, Graham?” Bernie asked, his voice a rumbling menace. 

The drunkard tried his pocket watch story, but Bernie’s stony face didn’t even blink.

“Ticket?”

Eventually the man stumbled away, grumbling about “ _just wanting a peek. Just a peek_.”

“Rubes,” Bernie said, the contempt in his voice making it clear his opinion of them. 

From inside the tent came the sound of absolute silence, and I knew that meant it was the magician’s turn in the ring. It was uncanny, that silence, broken only by the familiar _thud thud thud_ of knives sinking into a board. 

“Nearly over,” Bernie said when the roar of the crowd started up, a chant of “again! again!” swelling behind the brightly colored flaps of the tent. “We’ll be moving out as soon as-”

A woman’s scream cut through the cheers, then the rumble of feet as the crowd of hundreds beat across the wooden platform seats, and the unmistakable call from within that set us both running.

“Hey, Rube!”

Inside the tent Bernie and I had to fight the press of skin and sweat, dodge elbows and bodies, as a good portion of the crowd surged towards the flap we just came from. Like salmon swimming upstream, we pushed on toward the ring where the ruckus was coming from. It was dim in the big top; the gaslights dingy as the dirt and dust kicked up by the scrambling mob filled the air, but through it I could see where the trouble starts. Some fools had rushed the ring, and I have half a moment to catch my bearings before I throw back my fist and join in the fight, try to push on into the thick of it.

Pain erupted across my face as a fist cracked my jaw, and I manage to grab a handful of hair, holding down my assailant as I introduce my knee to his nose. I let him go just in time to dodge the next fist and on it went. I lose myself to the familiar rhythm of bracing against bludgeons and giving as good as I get. I’m in the ring, finally, and I note with relief that someone had the presence of mind to disappear Dr. Lecter’s knives before they got into the brawl. 

Roustabouts and rubes are all that are left, the gentle folk all had all run off and the kinkers have cleared out and left us to subdue the mob. I take an elbow to the sternum that leaves me breathless, stars exploding across my vision when it’s followed by a hit to the temple. I tried to fight off the attack but I’m slow to react, tried to breathe through lungs that have gone useless. I’m about to fall, but a hand grabbed my shoulder and pulls me upright before I do.

Dazed, I look up into the face of Dr. Lecter, his eye swelling from where he had caught one already, his aristocratic countenance marred by the rude mark.

“Why are you still here?” I said, tasting blood from where my teeth had met my cheek. “The other kinkers’ve cleared out. You should too.”

He hesitated, but I shove him toward the yard. As tempting as it was to see Dr. Lecter take a few blows, I know too well where we both stand in the grand scheme of things. 

Crawford could deal with a black and blue roustabout. A pummeled headliner was a whole different matter. 

“Make sure Alana is safe,” I said, turning back to the thick of the fight, and I keep a wary eye on the glow of his pale hair as it disappeared back to the lot where he belonged. 

Eventually the rubes would get tired of their game, would go back to town and leave us to load out in peace. If we were quick about it we could get out before the police came sniffing around, looking for handouts or warm bodies to throw into jail for disturbing the peace. 

It was the way of the world. My world.

I spit and even in the dim gaslight I could see my blood as it settled into the sawdust.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter-ette, here's the part I forgot to include in the previous chapter. Le sigh.

The only thing that was moving faster than load out that evening was Franklin’s mouth.

“I saw it all,” he boasted, ignoring Bernie’s glare.

“Keep workin’,” the old man groused, but Franklin’s face was alight in excitement, despite the welt across his forehead that was rapidly darkening into a nasty bruise. 

“Doc finished up his turn but some rube got all up in arms on how he wasn’t getting his money’s worth, said Doc wasn’t nothing but a hack. He’s the one that started it all, threw something at him. Clocked Doc right in the face!”

“Less yammerin, more workin.”

Franklin wasn’t the only one whose blood was up. The whole lot was abuzz with gossip as folks ran to and fro, preparing for the next jump. I tried to keep my head down and my focus on the task of bringing everything down around me, but the gossip gathered like flies, unavoidable and annoying. Already I could hear the tales growing with each telling. Everyone it seemed had suddenly been in the thick of it, duking it out with rubes for their very lives. For circus folk, the truth never did get in the way of a good story.  
Funny how the ones that spoke the loudest hadn’t a scratch on them when those of us nursing the worst of it stayed silent. 

All save Franklin.

“Of course Doc didn’t do nothin’, he’s not the type. Too much of a gentleman-” 

“Franklin. Enough.”

The only place I found that wasn’t filled with talk of the brawl was the stable. Peter was oblivious to everything but his horses. He murmured to his charges in a soothing voice, telling them what a wonderful job they had done in the show as he brushed the cooling horses dry. If he knew of the brawl, he wasn’t troubling his horses by mentioning it.

“We’ll be moving out soon,” I told Peter, and he acknowledged my warning with a vague nod.

“Do you need any help getting the horses ready, Peter?”

He shook his head, his attention never wavering from the one he was whispering to. 

It was somewhat disappointing, I would have preferred the quiet of the stable to the hubbub of the rest of the circus, but there was plenty more that needed doing. 

Passing behind the menagerie I caught a glimpse of the big cats in their cages, their focus riveted on Hobbs as he fed them slabs of raw meat, one last meal before it was back to the rails.

My stomach pinched angrily, and I was all too aware that the cookhouse hadn’t had anything other than beans for weeks. 

Lucky cats.

“What are you doing here?” 

When I turned I saw the pale face of Hobbs’ daughter, a bright flush in her cheeks. 

“Getting ready to move out. Do you need a hand?”

“Oh! No! No, we’re fine,” she said, adding a hasty “thank you,” before scurrying off.

A glint of something in the dirt caught my eye and I stooped to find a locket. It was a pretty little thing, round and golden, if a bit scuffed with wear. Well loved. 

“Hey!” I called after the Hobbs girl, but she was already gone. I stuffed the locket into my vest pocket for safe keeping. Once we were settled in the next town I’d return the necklace, I told myself, before moving on. 

***

It was a long jump, with nothing much more to do other than to lay in the hay and listen to the other men snore and curse as they lost at cards. I kept to myself, and by now the other men knew enough to leave me in peace. 

It was hot in the boxcar, but the heat wasn’t unbearable. I lost myself to the gentle sway of the train as it raced across the tracks. I must have drifted off, because slowly it came to me that I was standing in the big top, surrounded by a crowd so still they didn’t so much as breathe. I walked through the crystalized crowd, the glow from the ring calling me like a moth to its irresistible flame. 

Now that I was closer I could see the ring was set up for Dr Lecter’s act, his blonde assistant smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she plucked a red cloth from the air. She caught my gaze and, with a pitying glance turned the wooden plank to reveal Alana tied to the board. 

The crowd murmured in excitement as she writhed against the rope that held her in place.

Stepping near the magician’s assistant wrapped the red cloth across Alana’s eyes and stepped back just as a knife slit the air, piercing Alana through the chest. I felt nothing but detached curiosity as I watched dark blood seeping from the wound, darkening the white of the slip that clung to Alana’s form like mist.

The frozen crowd cheered as Dr. Lecter stepped into the ring. He gave a regal inclination of his head to acknowledge his audience, and there cheering only grew. He walked to Alana who still lay pinned, a butterfly held in place for his consideration. Finally he reached out with two fingers and curled them beneath her chin, tilting her head upward. Her dark curls spilled down her shoulders and it was all I could see of her as he leaned down to press a kiss on her limp mouth.

A hush fell over the crowd and somewhere in the distance a drum beat, at first slow and then faster, building the anticipation for the magician’s next great feat. The drum was in my veins now, my heart thudding as it went on and on until finally the final thud and silence. The great reveal.

When Dr. Lecter stepped back I could now see the figure on the board had shifted, changed. 

It was me. Pierced through the heart and laid bare for all to see. 

I reached out and suddenly I was no longer watching the scene, I was the one on the board. The blindfold fell away as I tugged against the knife’s point, reaching until my palm skated the edges of Dr. Lecter’s face, the planes of his jaw, and I jerked his face down to my own. Cheers again as I curled my fingers around his skull.

His lips brushed my own and I jolted awake. 

My heart was racing as I sat up, and for a moment I was confused. Slowly I began to make sense of where I was. Boxcar. Straw. 

Winston’s head came up, watching me carefully from where he laid curled at my feet. 

“Alright there, Graham?” someone called out and I nodded, ignoring the heaving of my breath and the racing of my pulse. I pat Winston’s head and his tail gave a single thump before he settled down again. 

I slumped back down and beneath the nest of straw my hand brushed against something smooth and pliable. Heart in my throat, I sat up again.

“Graham?”

With a sick certainty I parted the straw to reveal what I already knew to be there.

“Good God!” 

“Is that-”

The man was dead, that was abundantly obvious. His eyes had been plucked from his head, and there was a hole in his chest where his heart ought to be. His knuckles were as scrapped as my own, as any of us in that boxcar. 

“I know him!” Franklin yelped, eyes darting from the dead man to the air. “That’s- that’s the one that started it up in the tent.” 

Bernie’s face was grim as he looked over the corpse. 

“Throw ‘im over.”

“But shouldn’t we-” Franklin started to protest.

“Who do you think is gonna hang if anyone finds out about this?” 

In silence we all considered his words and knew them to be true. If this was one of the men from the brawl, it would be too easy to draw the line from any of us roustabouts to his corpse. 

“Throw ‘im over,” he said again. “And no one tells a soul of this.” 

“What about Crawford?” Louie asked, voice grim. 

“Least of all Crawford.” Bernie grabbed a hold of the man from beneath his shoulder, mindful to avoid the blood long since dried. “Graham, get the feet.”

I did as I was told.


	9. Chapter 9

Dumb luck.

Later, when I was sitting by Abigail Hobb’s bedside, holding her limp hand through the night, that was all I could think, over and over again.

It was all just pure, dumb luck. 

We made it to the next town without any additional excitement, and if anyone else found it odd that those raising the tents were more tight lipped than usual, they kept their observations to themselves. For those of us that had ridden in the boxcar with our unexpected stowaway, we kept our grim discovery doggedly to ourselves. And if the odd suspicious look passed between one roustabout to the other, if one’s mind began to wonder if there might actually be a murderer in our midst, no one was dense enough to say anything. 

I myself could feel enough of those speculating stares on my back as I worked, and I could all-too easily imagine the thoughts that trickled through the minds of those doing the looking. After all, I was the outsider, still; the one that kept to himself even after all these miles. As much as I had toiled with the other men: sweat and bled and fought and ate and slept beside them, there was still so much that they didn’t know about me. 

Nor I them. 

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this death than a simple case of retribution, of pride avenged. There was something about those hollowed out eyes, something that whispered of darker intentions than a brawl gone bad.

By the time I remembered the necklace I had slipped into my pocket for safe keeping, it was late, the show had come and gone, and we were already tearing down the lot to try and catch up with the route. Nobody liked it when a stand only lasted a day, least of all the workmen whose nerves were already frayed. Whatever silence had held us captive at the beginning of the day had given way to petty bickering.

It was almost a relief to discover the locket in my pocket, to have an excuse to leave behind the lowering of the tents for the relative quiet of the menagerie.

The lions and the tiger paced in their cage, a glint of hunger in the yellow eyes that followed my steps as I made my way into the tent. There was a thickness to the air, a predatory humidity that prickled along the back of my neck. 

Hobbs‘ daughter was alone, her back to me as she folded what I recognized as her Spec costume into a trunk.

I searched the recess of my mind until I pulled out what I hoped was her name: “Ana?”

“Abigail,” she corrected as she turned. 

_Close enough._

“I found this,” I said, producing the locket. “Figured it was yours.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Yes I- my father gave that- where did you find it?”

“Yesterday, before we loaded out.”

“Yes, I- well, thank you.” she took the locket and slipped it around her neck. Her eyes darted nervously around, clearly waiting for me to leave, but there was something about that necklace that teased at the back of my mind, a wisp of a memory I could only catch the barest glimpse of before it was gone again.

I stared at the Hobbs girl- at her flushed, pale cheeks, the blue of her eyes- and slowly another face stitched itself across hers. Another girl, with dark hair and pale skin.

And a locket, exactly the same at the one around Abigail’s neck.

“Your father gave that to you?” I asked, my voice even. 

“Yes.”

My mind whirred, brief images, snatches of conversation that had once seemed unrelated came to me then, each piece hung suspended in the recesses of my imagination connected to one another by a silver thread. 

The photograph of a missing girl on Crawford’s desk. 

_”There’s something different about these girls.”_

The hollowed-eyed corpse, waiting to found, so different from these girls gone without a trace.

_”Average age around sixteen.”_

Hobbs, wandering around in the dead of night.

I could see the threads, could practically reach out and run my fingers along their delicate length, but still there was something missing. Something vital that my mind shied away from. Something that I could only see when I closed my eyes and surrendered to the darkness that followed me whenever I dreamed.

“He was feeding them to the cats,” I said, and I never heard Hobbs entering the tent, never heard him behind me. Abigail’s gasp was the only warning I got before Hobbs was on me. 

I shoved the other man away, but he came back at me, this time with a knife he pulled from his belt. My knees bent as I braced myself, ready for his next attempt, but he moved past me to his daughter, who stood motionless with horror. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered brokenly as he gripped her around the shoulder and sliced across her throat. Blood sprayed in an arc, and as she fell I could see the disbelief written across her face. Instinctively I reached out to catch her, and Hobbs seized the chance to slash at my unprotected forearm, blood followed in the wake of the blade’s motion across my flesh. 

I braced for another attack from Hobbs, but he shoved me again only to turn and grasp his bleeding daughter by the wrist and drag her to the iron door of the lion’s cage. 

“Stop!” I yelled, but still he fumbled with the cage’s latch, unafraid of the beast that padded toward him in eager anticipation. With a strength borne of sheer desperation I threw myself bodily at him again, wrestling for control of the knife even as the great cat stared at us with cold, yellow eyes. 

I didn’t think- I didn’t have the luxury of thought- instead I grabbed the hilt of the blade with fingers slicked with blood and stabbed at Hobb’s chest. Again. And again. And again. 

Hobbs slid to the floor as I withdrew the blade from his chest for the last time, slumped against the bars of the lion’s cage, his eyes already sightless in death. The lion seized it’s chance, reaching through the bars with an eager paw, drawn to the stink of death, but I couldn’t care about that now. Not when Abigail was so pale, the blood from her neck still flowing in an unholy tide. 

I threw aside the knife and fell to my knees at Abigail’s side. Desperate, I clasped the wound at her neck, tried to staunch the flow with slippery hands. She gasped, choking on her own blood, and I knew if she was going to live I needed to get her to help right then and there. 

Scooping her into my arms I ran for Dr. Lecter’s quarters as quickly as I could, dodging past the chaos of the ‘yard and the exclamations of surprise. I kicked at Dr. Lecter’s door until he opened it, dressed down to his shirtsleeves, the faint traces of greasepaint still on his face. 

“Please,” I implored him and if he was taken aback by the scene at his door, he soon made up for it as he stepped aside and directed me to set Abigail across his table. With a practiced hand he clamped down on the wound at her neck.

“My medical bag,” he said, directing me with the tilt of his head and I hurried over for it. “And stoke the fire. I will need to cauterize this wound.”

Even though I didn’t fully understand what he meant, I did as I was told, holding Abigail’s wound as he heated an iron poker until it glowed yellow with heat. 

“What-” I protested when he began to press the iron to her throat.

“Trust me,” he said, and I was glad, as smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the room that Abigail had long since gone unconscious.

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” he said, and even though it wasn’t a question, I found myself answering.

“Yes.”

“Then we have only one option,” he said, reaching into his medical bag, rooting about until he found what he was looking for: a rubber bulb attached on either end with silver tubes. “There is a controversial treatment for bloodloss, one that I wouldn’t even venture to attempt except in a circumstance like this. Please, roll up your sleeve.”

I did as I was told, the fabric tacky and coarse with blood, my forearm still bleeding with its own mark of violence. 

“I am going to try to pump your blood into her body. The rate of success for this kind of procedure is slim, and there’s nothing to guarantee that even if we attempt this she will live. Still,” he said, expertly inserting one end of the tube into the crook of her arm. “I believe we must try.”

I stared at Abigail’s face- her lips so colorless they were turning blue- and I nodded my consent. I settled into a chair as Dr. Lecter inserted the other end of the tube into my arm and, after pumping the rubber bulb with dexterous fingers, all we could do was sit and wait. 

Dr. Lecter busied himself, stitching together the gash that Hobb’s knife had left across my arm. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like any whiskey,” he asked again, but I was barely aware of the needle as it pierced my flesh and mutely shook my head.

After long minutes I was light headed, and I became all-too aware of the chill in the air. Dr. Lecter helped to ease me onto the floor, propping my back against the leg of the table, and I slumped against it gratefully. My eyes fluttered closed as he left, and I wasn’t sure how much had time had past, just that I became aware of the thick weight of a wool blanket when Dr. Lecter settled it around my shoulders, mindful of the tube that linked me to Abigail, my life’s blood flowing into her body. 

Eventually he returned to slide the tube from my vein, but my head was muzzy, my sight blurry when I tried to look up at him.

“Sleep,” he said, and I obeyed his command, my eyes fluttering closed of their own volition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. I'm no doctor and just an amateur historian, but I did do some research about 1800s-ish blood transfusions and got most of my info here: http://www.sld.cu/galerias/pdf/sitios/anestesiologia/history_of_transfusion.pdf
> 
> If you are interested, the little tube thing Hannibal used was invented in the 1870s by Dr J.H.Aveling. Here’s a cool image I found of it being used that I used as inspiration for this scene: http://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/40/6f/7d1d95d2119e2cabed64c4b96055.jpg 
> 
> More to come soon, thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Later, though time had ceased to have much in the way of meaning for me so I would be hard pressed to say how _much_ later, we moved Abigail from the table to Dr. Lecter’s bed that was hidden from view by a paper-thin partition. She didn’t awaken, didn’t so much as moan. I settled onto the floor and slipped her hand between both of my own.

“She is doing remarkably well,” Dr. Lecter said.

Her skin was pale- so very pale- and her breath came softly enough I could almost believe she had stopped breathing altogether. 

“You have a strange definition of ‘remarkably well’.”

Dr. Lecter’s hand gripped my shoulder and I could feel the strong vitality of his touch. “She isn’t lost to us. Not yet.”

His hand stayed on my shoulder for long minutes and I almost could start to hope our efforts hadn’t been in vain.

And yet, for all this strength, I felt strangely light, as if all that was preventing me from floating off was the weight of his hand on my shoulder. As if I was only so much light and dust.

He moved away, and when he returned I was surprised when he disentangled my hand from Abigail’s.

“Wha-” I started, lifting my groggy head from where I had it propped on the bed’s edge.

“Easy,” he said, taking a wet cloth to my hands and with all the patience of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, so, too, did Dr. Lecter wash my skin clean. He was mindful of the line of stitches that dotted along my forearm, and if it hurt I wasn’t in the frame of mind to notice. 

It was an intimate process, one that I might have taken issue with, if I wasn’t so bone-deep tired. 

“Rest,” he murmured, and I acquiesced, the side of my face once more settling down to the bed’s edge. Warily I watched as he worked, eyelids heavy. 

Time passed again and I must have drifted off, because when I was aware I was surprised to feel a familiar sway. Were we really back on the rails again?

“We left nearly two hours ago,” Dr. Lecter said and I could see him sitting at the table, studying a gold pocket watch. He snapped it closed and slipped the watch into his pocket. 

I shook my head, tried to clear it with little success. 

“Please, come to the table and eat something,” Dr. Lecter gestured to the simple meal of breads and cheese before him. “You will need your strength if you want to help Miss Hobbs.”

I did as I was told, sitting across the table from Dr. Lecter and tearing at the loaf of bread. It seemed to satisfy the other man, which I felt a queer sort of gratification from. 

At some point I would cease to take orders from him, but for now it was easier to let him think for me. 

“What did you mean by ‘help’?”

Dr. Lecter’s posture was impeccable, his hands folded neatly in his lap and his face an inscrutable mask. He was everything I, with my elbows on the table and working man’s slouch, was not. 

“Miss Hobbs still has not awakened and I’m becoming concerned. I believe we ought to try another transfusion of blood, perhaps a few more, until she comes to or....” his voice trailed away as his eyes took in his patient on the other side of the room. “I would give her my own blood, but the rate of success of this sort of thing is slim enough. As she’s already responded well to yours, I hope you wouldn’t be adverse to volunteering again.”

“You’re the doctor. Whatever you think is best.” 

He tilted his head down, gracefully acknowledging my deference. 

“Is there anything else?”

Dr. Lecter hesitated, his mind clearly troubled. 

“I would like to tell you what Crawford believes happened.” I opened my mouth but he stilled my words with a raised palm; it hovered in the air between us. “Before you say anything more, let me tell you what everyone else believes. As we were loading out a tragic accident occurred. Somehow the lion’s cage was opened, and the beast killed Hobbs before attacking his daughter. You came upon them and were able to wrest the creature back into its cage and brought Miss Hobbs to me.”

I blinked, shaking my head “That...That may not be an accurate depiction of what happened.”

“I had my suspicions,” Dr. Lecter said, carefully setting something on the table between us. It was a knife, its wicked blade coated dark with dried blood. “Tell me what happened.”

So I did.

Whatever hostility I felt for the man seemed like a lifetime ago. I held back nothing, not the body we found in the hay, not the missing girls nor what I suspected Hobbs had been doing with them. His face betrayed nothing of what he might have thought of the strange and terrible tale, if he was shocked or disgusted I couldn’t say. When I was done we sat in the silence, reflecting. I had no desire to make excuses for myself or my actions, so instead I just waited as the other man collected his thoughts.

“If Jack learns that you killed Hobbs,” his words were carefully spoken and I could feel the full weight of each of them. “He will have to alert the authorities. You will be found guilty of murder and probably hanged. The question as to whether Hobbs in fact murdered those girls will be irrelevant: there is no proof that he did and any hope you had of a confession from Hobbs died the moment he did.”

Dr. Lecter picked up the knife again, holding it with an expert’s hand: one at the handle, the other delicately trapping the blade’s tip. His dark eyes flitted across the murderous instrument solemnly. 

“We shall have to make sure Crawford never finds out what really happened,” he said. With a flick of his wrist the knife disappeared and even though I knew it to be the skillful illusion it was, my heart pounded as if I had witnessed an act of actual magic. 

Through a mouth gone dry, I managed a single question: “Why?”

“I have my reasons,” he said with a slight smile. His head lowered and a lock of hair fell across his forehead. 

I suddenly had the inexplicable desire to push back his hair. Instead I turned away abruptly, my eyes seeking the elaborate crimson rugs that covered the floor as my fingers curled into fists. 

“Shall we?” Dr. Lecter asked, pushing away from the table and sweeping a hand toward where Abigail lay. 

The next few days had a beautiful simplicity to them, one that I languished in gladly. I stayed by Abigail’s bedside, sometimes sitting in the chair that Dr. Lecter dragged across the room for me to sit in, though most times I eschewed the chair altogether in favor of the floor. Dr. Lecter always raised his eyebrow when he found me there, would purse his lips, though he never said a word about it. Instead he would take the chair for himself as if that had been his intention all along. With adept fingers, the physician would find the thready pulse of Abigail’s wrist while I contented myself with charting the rise and fall of her chest.

Some nights I would be sure, so very sure, that she had stopped breathing and my own breath would still as I watched, alert, until I found that rise and fall again.

My arms were mottled with the dark shadows of bruises from where Dr. Lecter drew my blood; a perpetual twilight of blue and purple. Each time he would ask: “Are you sure?” and each time I gave my consent with a wordless nod. 

I had killed the girl’s father, murdered him as she laid not two feet away. Regardless of what he was, of what he did, he was still Abigail’s father, and I had murdered him. 

My blood was a small price to pay for spilling his. 

Sometimes the room would sway and I knew we were back on the rails. I’m not sure what kind of strings Dr. Lecter pulled with Crawford, but we were never disturbed. Nobody ever came in search of me and though I half-expected to be red lighted at any moment, nobody ever disturbed the silence of Dr. Lecter’s chambers to give me the heave.

Dr. Lecter still performed, of course, and when I was awake I became a silent witness to all the rituals that went into preparing for his act. If he minded that I now knew where wires ran and mechanisms were planted along his body, he didn’t mention it. He showed a casual disregard for my newfound knowledge of the particulars of his livelihood, but I could see all too plainly the gift he was giving me. 

Trust.

I told him my secret regarding Hobbs and in return he was letting me in to the private sanctum of his world of illusions.

_Quid pro quo._

“Alana was inquiring about you before the show tonight,” Dr. Lecter said as his finger nimbly sought out and found a length of my vein to pierce. His words were neutral, and if he had an opinion about that, I didn’t know what it was by listening to him. “She wondered if she might be able to visit with you.”

The flicker of gaslight was dim, casting half of the magician’s face in shadow.

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

“She’s worried about you,” he said as he pierced Abigail’s skin, too. “Perhaps a visit would put her mind at ease.”

“I can’t imagine that it would.” I ran a rough hand over the scruff at my cheek and tried to remember the last time I had bathed. 

“You can’t hide from her forever,” he said seriously, but I could hear the slightest trickle of laughter in his words, like a solemn wind blowing through wind chimes. 

“Not forever, no. But for now I can.”

“She is quite fond of you, you know.”

“Fondness,” I repeated, stretching the word in my mouth. “That was not quite the feeling I had hoped to engender in Miss Alana Bloom.”

It was the first time I had alluded to our roles in the opera that was our rivalry for Alana Bloom’s affections. We had settled into an unspoken truce, but I had had plenty of time to mull it over.

“You speak her name and it’s like watching the red glow of an ember in a fireplace long since burnt.” His observation was so mildly spoken it was easy to ignore my instinct to go silent, to hide behind the barriers I’d long since constructed between me and the rest of civilization. 

“I’ve followed her for over three years. Three years is a long time spent in anticipation of a future that is becoming all-too clear to me will never be.”

“Many would find your tenacity flattering. Others might become concerned, worry it borders on obsession.”

I bowed my head, scrubbing my eyes with the flat of my free palm. “Obsession. That would be a good way to characterize my actions these past few years. But, I’ve come to a realization.”

“Oh?”

“As soon as Abigail- as soon as I know, one way or the other if she-” I swept my hand over the scene and hoped I wouldn’t have to say anything further. “I’m going to move on. Find work on the water again.”

“That would be a tidy solution,” Dr. Lecter noted. “You wouldn’t have to worry about the truth of Garrett Jacob Hobbs coming to light. Whatever feelings you still have for Alana would be allowed to come to a peaceful end and you both might be able to find your own, separate happiness.”

“But?” I said, voicing the hesitation I could taste between his words.

He sighed. “I’m sure it’s none of my business.”

“You might as well say it,” I closed my eyes and leaned back, bracing myself both literally and figuratively. As my blood spilled into Abigail, I could feel that feeling of cold emptiness which had become so familiar as of late. “You are a part of this, now.”

_Whether he wanted to be or not._

“Alana will be sorry to see you go. I’m sure she isn’t the only one.”

“She is,” I said. I had no delusions as to my place in this world at Crawford Brothers Circus. “There is nothing for me here.”

“In any case, there is no need to make any decisions now. Miss Hobbs may make a full recovery, yet. You may discover something other than your passion for Alana that would entice you to stay.”

I snorted a bitter laugh. “I highly doubt it.”

“We will have to wait and see.”


	11. Chapter 11

There was a tremor in Abigail’s fingers, the most infinitesimal of twitches, but it was enough to set my heart racing. I sat up, wide awake. Our hands were still clasped and as I watched her dry lips parted. 

“Doctor-” I started, but he was already there, pushing me aside to tend to his patient.

His hands were never still as they flitted to take Abigail’s pulse, to land on her cheek, to settle on her chest. 

“Miss Hobbs,” he said. 

“Abigail,” when she didn’t respond. 

I'd never heard Dr. Lecter speak the girl’s given name before. Hearing that intimacy made me bow my head and close my eyes. Not in prayer; I had long since given up on that sort of thing. Even so, I couldn't help but begin to feel something suspiciously like hope. 

“Listen to my voice, Abigail. Follow my voice.”

Abigail’s head moved back and forth on the pillow, but he took her face between his capable hands, trapping her.

“Abigail.”

Abigail’s eyes flew open. With a gasp she clutched at the air in front of her, fighting demons only she could see. 

“Easy,” Dr Lecter said, catching her hands in his. “Easy. You are safe now.”

Her ragged breath calmed by increments. The more conscious she became, the further I backed away from her bedside, until I was all but out the door. 

“Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter called out. He might as well have had my own head between his hands, since I couldn't stop myself from responding.

“Yes?”

“There should be a cup on that shelf,” he pointed. “See if you can find a water barrel nearby, I’m sure Miss Hobbs would appreciate something to drink.”

It was the first time I'd been outside in days. The lot was muddy, clearly it had been raining for some time, and for some reason that took me by surprise. Some part of me must have expected the world beyond Dr. Lecter's door to be the same as when I'd first brought Abigail to him. Like I was marking a page in a book, something to return to later. But, no, we were in some new town and the ‘yard was slick with muck. Workers and kinkers scurried from one place to the other, trying in vain to stay dry. 

And that was a bit of good luck, there. Everyone was so busy running back and forth nobody seemed inclined to stop me or ask where I’d been. 

With my shoulders pulled up to my ears I scanned the tents and wagons until I finally found one of the barrels that were scattered around the lot. The lid had been carelessly left off and rain water was mixing with what all had already melted off the block of ice. I filled the cup carefully, trying to avoid the drowned flies and the blades of grass that had found their way in.

I returned to Dr. Lecter’s door with a walk that was measured and slow. The rain was falling harder by the time I got there, the storm rolling in in earnest, but I didn’t hurry. Instead I tilted my face to the cool water, savoring the taps across my forehead and tried to settle my mind. 

When Abigail was comatose I had felt an extraordinary responsibility to hold vigil at her side. Every so often Dr. Lecter had taken my blood, but really there was no need for me to have stayed so close by except that I couldn't bring myself to leave. Now she was awake and as glad as I was for that still I felt shaken. Displaced. Up until now I could just about fool myself into falling for what our roles might look like to an outsider: guardian and guarded, caregiver and charge. But with Abigail awake I was wary of becoming what we'd really been all this time: murderer and orphan. 

“Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter said from his seat by Abigail’s bedside. “Perfect timing.”

Abigail was propped upright by a pillow, but I could feel her curious gaze as I carried the cup of water across the room.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice husky from disuse and she took the cup from me between two careful hands. 

“Not too much,” Dr. Lecter cautioned, his hand hovering to take the cup from her when she was finished drinking. “Mr. Graham, there is a towel just there by my wardrobe, if you please.”

When I retrieved it I held it to the doctor and he raised a bemused eyebrow. “That would be for you, Mr. Graham.”

“Oh,” I said and when Dr. Lecter continued to stare at me I finally wised to his meaning, mopping up the rain that had soaked into my hair and spilled across my brow. 

Dr. Lecter ushered me into the chair by Abigail’s bedside and awkwardly I sat.

“How much do you remember of what happened, Miss Hobbs?” Dr. Lecter was saying.

“Not... much.” Abigail blinked, her face scrunched as she tried to conjure memories that refused to come. “I was sick?”

“You were hurt. Badly. Mr. Graham saved your life.”

I jolted at the sound of my name, heart pounding like an animal caged, or a man guilty. “I wouldn’t go so far as to-”

“I would,” Dr. Lecter interrupted firmly. “Without Mr. Graham you would have surely perished.”

“I-” she swallowed hard, tried again. “I guess I should thank you. I’m sorry... I don’t remember anything...”

“You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal. Your memories will come back to you," Dr. Lecter reassured, his hand passing tenderly across her hair. "Slowly, but they will return.”

“I remember blood... My father?”

“Dead,” I said bluntly and regretted it when Abigail’s eyes fixed on me. “I’m sorry-”

“What- why are you sorry? Did you-”

“It was a lion attack, I’m afraid,” Dr. Lecter interceded and incredulously I stared at him, though he ignored me to hold Abigail’s hand between his own and earnestly lean in; a paragon of paternal comfort. “A terrible accident, but Mr. Graham was able to save you. He brought you to me, and together we were able to save your life.”

Abigail blinked, her eyes became red, and I could see she was fighting away tears with a tenacity I felt like a bolt to the chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude but, I think I’m getting tired, do you think perhaps you could-”

“Of course,” Dr. Lecter said with a solicitous nod of his head. 

We moved the partition so that there was a semblance of privacy. In silence we sat at the table. I stared at the grain of the wood and tried to pretend I couldn’t hear the sound of crying muffled by a pillow. Dr. Lecter wound his pocket watch and appeared for all the world as if he could not hear the young girl’s pain on the other side of the thin rice paper partition. When the sounds slowly became fewer and far between, Dr. Lecter crossed the room to steal a glance at Abigail.

“Asleep,” came his verdict. 

“Good.” When he sat back at the table I forced myself to meet his eye. “Why did you lie to her? Abigail was there, she saw what I did.”

Dr. Lecter’s face was grave in the dim light, the sound of the rain drops scattering across the roof was a lonely music as he considered me at length.

“I have found,” he said finally. “That a person’s memory is only as accurate as they want it to be.”

“Do you really think Abigail will forget I killed her father?”

“I believe a person’s perception of what they know to be true can be guided towards... alternative interpretations of events.”

_Alternative interpretations_. I snorted at the euphemism. 

“I suppose you would know from perceptions,” I said, a bite to my tone. “You’ve built a career on lies and misdirections.”

“I have.” His head tipped as he smiled.

“That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“What is the truth? Philosophers have devoted tomes to the subject, and even so the answer eludes them. Can Miss Hobbs’ truth be different from your own truth? I believe it can.”

I was starting to realize Dr. Lecter's power was not just relegated to what he could do in the ring with an audience or with a deck of cards.

“Pretty words," I said. " But you're dancing around the facts. You lied to Abigail.” 

“Maybe I did,” Dr. Lecter stood to lean in close to my shoulder, his voice lowering. “But in so doing I have saved your life, which is something I will not be made to regret.”

His words settled strangely into my chest and I was silent for the rest of the evening. Dr. Lecter ignored me just as he had Abigail's tear, instead working his hands through a series of dexterity exercises with a deck of cards. I watched as the cards flipped crisply between his fingers, appearing and disappearing. What was it about this man that had me so disarmed? It wasn’t so long ago I hadn’t thought of him much at all. He'd been kind to me when I'd been hurt, but I'd tried my utmost to avoid him after that encounter. I wasn't used to unmotivated kindness and that type of regard made me uncomfortable, or at least that was what I told myself. Just as his nightly presence in the ring had made me uncomfortable, but that could be explained away as a natural unease at having my time with Alana be interrupted by his company. 

Couldn’t it?

When I blinked myself from the recesses of my mind I realized that Dr. Lecter was studying me silently. 

“Lost in thought?” 

“Something like that,” I answered. He didn’t speak and that strange discomfort came over me, like my skin was suddenly two sizes too small, and I cleared my throat. “What?”

“I was considering a somewhat morbid subject.”

I smiled, though it stretched across my face begrudgingly. “Morbidity doesn’t bother me.”

“You spoke earlier about one of Hobbs’ murders, the man you found in the hay-”

“I never said he was one of Hobbs’ murders,” I interrupted. 

“No?”

I shook my head. Though I hadn’t yet tried to articulate my intuition on the matter, I knew almost unquestionably that Hobbs hadn’t murdered the man in the hay. I tried to gather the flickers of impressions, like a entomologist collecting specimens with a butterfly net. 

“If the photographs that Crawford had in his possession were all girls murdered by Hobbs it seems he had a very distinct preference. Young ladies, all around the same age. All with dark hair, pale skin, windswept cheeks...”

“All girls that look like Miss Hobbs.”

“All girls that look _uncannily_ like Miss Hobbs.”

“Whereas the man in the hay...” 

His voice trailed off as he prompted me to continue. Though my instinct was to balk, speaking to Dr. Lecter was almost too easy, and like that first time, I found the words falling from my mouth, like water from a thawed spring. 

“Whereas the man in the hay was a _man_. Late thirties.” As I spoke my mind conjured his face, his clothes, his body and it was if he were in front of me yet again. 

I could see the deep grooves of wrinkles in his face, a life of outdoor labor written in the leather of his skin, in his scrapped and scarred knuckles. He hung before me, a specimen to be inspected.

“About as far as you can get from a fresh-faced girl. No, Hobbs didn’t kill that man. There’s a reason we haven’t found those girls- he was feeding what he could to his cats, and the rest he disposed of quietly. Almost reverently. The man in the hay was meant to be found, was made to be humiliated in death. Whoever killed him thought he was a pig. They took what they wanted and threw the rest away like so much garbage.”

If Dr. Lecter disbelieved my words he didn’t show it. Instead he looked off into the distance, one finger absentmindedly tapping against the table in front of him. 

“If what you say is true, then Hobbs may prove to be the least of our worries.”

I was startled. “What do you mean?”

“If Hobbs didn’t murder the man in the hay, that means there is another killer amongst us that has yet to be discovered.”

I let his observation wash over me, and knew it to be true. We lapsed into a silence that might have made anyone else uncomfortable, though Dr. Lecter didn’t try to speak. He seemed as at home in the quiet as I was and we stayed that way- lost to our own worlds- as the tick of his pocket watch marked time along with the drumming of the rain above us. 

“It’s getting late,” Dr. Lecter finally said, the legs of his chair scrapping the floor as he stood. “I hope you will consider staying here another night.”

I thought of the rain outside- and the no-doubt muddy ground that was waiting for me back in the leaky tent with the other roustabouts- and the decision was simply made. We had to make new sleeping arrangements; though Dr. Lecter had arranged for a cot for himself while Abigail took his bed these last few days, I’d taken to sleeping propped against her bedside. Not the most comfortable of places, but with each transfusion of blood draining me of energy I hadn’t noticed much beyond that bone-deep weariness. 

It was a weariness I was quickly coming to miss as I stared into the dark. My imagination painted roiling, shifting shadow across the ceiling- smoke and ink dashing against a looming precipice- and I could feel a familiar foreboding. My mind was lying in wait, ready to envelop my waking self with the sort of gruesome thoughts I could only hold away as long as I stayed awake. 

My customary sleeplessness had returned.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Dr. Lecter asked after some time from across the room.

“No,” I said. Not any more so than usual. 

Alana’s words from a lifetime ago came to me then. _Dr. Lecter might have some medicine for that_ , she had said and when I had been consumed with jealousy the other man had been the last person I would have gone to with my problem. 

But so much had changed since then.

I explained to Dr. Lecter what was keeping me awake. Not the particulars, of course. Nobody needed to know the depravity I saw when my eyes were closed. Still, something for sleep seemed like the sort of thing a doctor might have. And he did. 

I removed the stoppered from the slender blue bottle he offered me and there was immediately the familiar, bracing smell of hooch. 

The temptation to fall straight into the bottle was keen.

“Crawford warned me off drinking,” I said. 

“Why let that stop you? I thought you were considering leaving the circus?" he smiled, a dare in the crook of his lips. "You won't need to drink much of it, it is a fairly potent concoction. The spirits are only there to make the opium more soluble." 

“So this is laudanum, then?”

I'd never had laudanum before, mostly because I'd found moonshine to be cheaper and just as effective a remedy as any.

“It is a patent medicine of my own making. Cinnamon. Opium. Some other odds and ends. It will produce sleep,” he assured.

“It’s the dreams I’m worried about.”

The shine of his eyes in the dark sparkled with intelligence.

“This will take care of those, too.”

_He’s a good man_ , Alana had said.

And as I tipped back the burning potion I let myself believe it.


	12. Chapter 12

And now we interrupt this fic with a very important announcement:

Hey guys, chimosa here.

First off I want to thank all of you that have been reading along and commenting and kudo-ing as I've updated this crazy little story of mine. You have no idea how much it has meant to me to have you guys cheering along as I write. As someone that feels waaaay more comfortable writing shorter fics, you have been the fuel that's pushed me to get as far as I have. I realized recently, though, that I'm not so crazy about the way the story is starting to take shape. So, I'm going to do something a little (for me) scary. I'm going to stop updating in short 2,000 word bursts and try to finish this fic alone. I want to polish some of the rougher edges and get this into way better shape and make it (hopefully) a better reading experience for you. So I'll be taking this guy away for a little while. I'll still leave what's been written up for now, but the plan is that when I post the final work this one will probably come down. It kind of breaks my heart to see all your lovely comments go away, so I hope that when it's all said and done, you'll join me over at the shiny *new* "Sawdust" and let me know what you think.

I'm looking for a couple of beta readers in the meantime, so if you feel comfortable reading and proofing in English, email me at chimosawrites@gmail.com. 

If you want a status report as to when the new fic will be done (or just want to say hi), you can drop me a line here in the comments or on my [tumblr](http://chimosastuff.tumblr.com/)

And if I don't see you before then, Happy Season 3 Watching!!!


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